A Fall In Time: Week Eleven

24th to the 30th of November, 2010

Winter was here. And it was not a normal early UK winter, either. The temperature plummeted, the snow began to swirl, and the water locked itself away in thick ice sculpture.

I, however, was warm and toasty in my shelter, enjoying the change in weather and keeping myself cosy by my fire making Christmas presents. Yet it wouldn’t be long until that weather began to alter my plans, pushing events somewhat out of my hands…

If you have no idea what this message is about (perhaps you signed up to my mailing list as a part of a book giveaway?), or why you are receiving it, head to this introductory piece, which also contains a chapter listing, with links. Below is the eleventh week of A Fall In Time.

The Frozen Dark, Below

It was dark when I awoke on the 24th of November, 2010, dark and cold. The fire was glowing and I could coax it back to life quickly, but leaving my cosy sleeping bag nest to do so was tough.

The dawn was slow, the sun seemingly struggling to wake and claw herself above the mountains to the east and, before she did, she shone through sparse and frozen clouds, created a stunning prismatic, nacreous effect, as though they had been dipped into rainbows.

The progress of the sun towards the shortest day meant that sunrise moved further and further south and, as it did so, it moved behind taller peaks, making dawn even later. Rising in the dark meant my early companions were the stars, before they were replaced by pre-dawn grey, wet slate colour turning to dry, then to pigeon, before the night slipped away once more.

Each night now, the temperature dropped a little lower and, each morning, I kept expecting snow. The ground was drying out, the moisture retreating into the depths of the peat, hiding in crack and crevice, the air feeling sharper in the lungs. My camera was struggling, giving me errors which I later learnt were due to the cold. It had been over a week since there had been any rain, which is rather a long time for the west coast of Scotland.

I was glad my camp was on a south facing slope. Many of those facing north no longer saw the sun at all. She would rise, roll along low, keeping her head down, trying not to be noticed, as though she could not wait to sleep once more, to set, snuggled into the watery embrace of the Atlantic.

Direct sunlight was limited to only a few hours, six or fewer, and I knew it would be fewer still further north at Christmas, where my parents and sisters lived. There, the sun really does not want to be seen during winter, exhausted by being up all day and much of the night in summer.

Standing, with feet getting colder and colder, watching the line of daylight slide down mountain and hillside like a slowly falling theatre curtain, is something I will never tire of. Feeling the sun hit your face after a frigid night is astonishing, a moment of pure primal or animal joy.

In the sheltered hollows there was still moisture enough for frost and beautiful crystals seemed sprayed everywhere, coating leaf, twig, bracken and moss. The bogs had frozen over in swirls and patterns—art which only I would witness in person. I felt honoured to have shared in that first thick freezing over of winter, and tried to capture the beauty in a series of photographs.

As I stared into the depths of the bogs, through crystal-clear ice, I imagined someone—or something—staring back from beneath, the bog-dweller, merewif, water-spirit, those who were feared and venerated over thousands of years. Having the ice between bog and myself felt oddly disquieting and I really kept expecting to see movement below.

The frozen mud would hold my weight for a moment or two, then break, sucking me under, the ice adding to the difficulty of moving through the bogs.

I took more photographs of ancient building remains, wondering how long since someone had lived there, and how long people had lived there before they were cleared away, moved on to the cities, or even further: Canada, the US, Australia or New Zealand. They may be long gone, but the ground remembered them still, remembered the times that children would play in those hills and glens, that laughter would ring from crag and tree.

I had been hearing more strange noises, things I could not explain, similar to those I discussed in my Halloween post, but I did not feel fear.

Perhaps it was just the effect of the fallen leaves and atmospheric conditions, sound bouncing and travelling strangely or, perhaps, it was something different, some distant resonance released by stone and bog, heather and tree. It did not matter—I meant no harm to this place and, I was sure, the land knew.

Winter, Arrived

I am fairly sure I will have snow by this time tomorrow.

Journal Two. 25th of November, 2010

It had been another clear morning but, by afternoon, the skies were no longer blue, beginning to threaten, thick, dark and dusty brown.

On this day, I had to give up filling my water from my usual small local pool, instead walking a little further to the deeper, faster stream on the other side of my hill. It was not an unpleasant walk and, although much longer, it was still far shorter than many people in this world have to walk to collect their water.

I saw and photographed many interesting things—fungi that, at the time, I did not know, droppings/scat (I’ve not posted many poop pics so far [on this day: pine marten—Martes martes; and badger—Meles meles], I have quite a collection of them, as I do with prints and tracks and signs. A reference collection is so useful), and birds, including the robin and several shots of the local treecreeper (Certhia familiaris). I especially liked the shot of the treecreeper flying upwards, it reminds me of old paintings of birds, which just demonstrates how, even hundreds of years ago, observation was key.

The camouflage of the treecreeper is second to none and, when they tuck themselves into hollows in the tree bark, they can virtually disappear.

The air smelled of snow and even the salty, brackish pools of water on the foreshore were frozen. I was lucky the burn still flowed, even with a much-diminished water level.

I have always loved snow—perhaps, as I tell people, because I do not drive—but, for whatever reason, the thought of the first flakes of the season thrilled me.

By the time I took the photo of myself, the odd flake of snow was beginning to wisp through the hole in my shelter roof and the temperature was hovering around freezing. I, however, was quite warm and cosy, my oak logs providing more than enough heat for my humble home.

My shelter was becoming increasingly full of things I had gathered, a birch log, awaiting its turn to have the bark carefully removed for craft purposes, seal bones, stones, shafts for arrows and spears, and all manner of other found flotsam and jetsam. Things I had found, things I was making or had made, and things which would eventually be turned into something else.

I think this self-portrait—smoking my pipe, my headtorch off but still glinting on my forehead, my beard looking somewhat wild—captures those evenings perfectly.

I was happy, even as winter had arrived.

Four Skull Shack in the Snow

It started snowing at half past six in the morning, before dawn, small, soft balls of the stuff: powder snow. When I went out to clean my porridge pan it had become larger, irregularly shaped powdery snow and now, as I write, at half past eight, it has just turned to proper flakes—not heavy, yet, but ethereal and full of beauty nonetheless. Listening to the sizzle of snowflakes in the fire is quite wondrous.

Journal Two. 26th of November, 2010.

I was now filling in the small gaps in my Moleskine, having filled this second notebook which, whilst saving paper and meaning I could write more, is a bit of a headache when rereading!

In some of the photos, you can see the snow falling inside my shelter. If I wanted, I could close or narrow the gap above, using a combination of my tarp and waterproof backpack cover, but there was little need. The walls and thatched roof kept the wind out and the warmth in, and the centrally-located fire and a deliberate drop to the rear of the shelter, used for storing things behind where I slept, meant that any cold air fell into this area and the warm stayed where I was.

The plastic bag near the door is full of rubbish I would pack out when I left, the others hanging from the frame are some of my dwindling supplies.

The door is made from my poncho, folded and fastened, with a heavy log inside at floor level. I used nails salvaged from driftwood to hang it on the frame and the doorway itself was constructed around the size and position of the poncho, all the way back in early October, when I built the frame. This meant that the log sat in a gap between rocks and did not blow around, the nails and eyelets holding the poncho taut and resistant to wind, rain and now driving snow.

A major part of bushcraft and living wild is thinking—and thinking ahead. This poncho door and frame is a good example of that. This skillset—pausing and thinking things through, instead of rushing on ahead—is essential in wilder places. It conserves calories and makes us appreciate our environment far more attentively. Often, such a pause will present solutions you did not initially consider—perhaps a technique which could (and should) be translated into normal, day-to-day life, too?

For example, I now knew all the deer trails for a large distance around me. I knew when they passed a certain way and how long it would be before the next occasion. I knew where they ate, where they walked, drank, and slept.

I did not want, or need, to kill a deer, but I knew where I could do so. I could practice building deadfall traps, for example, testing this skill, without hurting a living creature I did not need to eat at that time. There were many places on their trails perfect for this, where they were squeezed between trees or rocks, with already fallen logs on the trail, or leaning trees above. Building traps, testing their trigger mechanism with a stick, rebuilding, refining and learning through practical, hands-on, experience is crucial. But there’s no need to kill when you don’t need to.

Being prepared, observant and with the correct knowledge is key to feeling at home in nature. This sits at the very heart of my Ancestral, Wild Empowerment series, which this year has mostly languished without further addition—something I hope to change, soon.

In some of the photographs, you can see Four Skull Shack in the snow—you might notice that, where it isn’t entirely finished (still some leaf litter and forest floor debris to add, then the final layer of living moss), the snow does not stay. These were places which leaked more heat and needed attention.

The wind on the 26th kept swirling around, changing direction and, by dusk, it was coming from the north-east, carrying a bitterly cold message.

There is a wisp of smoke escaping from the hole in one picture, and I often wondered what would happen in the rather unlikely event someone happened across my shelter, seeing smoke rising from what looked like a small, rocky and moss-coated outcrop. Maybe this is where Tolkien got his idea for Hobbit holes? Another person, living wild, closer to the nature and, although technically alone, also surrounded by friends.

The snow had been threatening for days, but it arrived hard and fast on the 26th of November. This video was shot where I was refilling my waterbags—I heard a deer bark and managed to catch them disappearing into the woods.

It is not the best video, being filmed on a camera, fourteen years ago, but it serves as a reminder. By the time I was heading back to my woodland shelter, I couldn’t see far at all, the snow was so thick.

The Harshest Winter in Generations

I do think tonight will definitely be the coldest I have yet experienced since arriving here. It is -6°c (21F) in Mallaig, and that is closer to the coast, lower down, and a village. Here, the ink in my pen is freezing: I had to warm it in my hands before I could write this.

Journal Three. 27th November 2010.

The weather was not letting up, nor would it for some time to come. However, I was actually enjoying the cold, if felt fresh and revitalising, especially as I was well equipped and clothed, with a roaring parallel log fire of oak. My supplies were enough that I was not too worried, but I knew I would need to be careful to ensure they lasted as long as I might need them to. I also needed to ensure I drank enough, the cold air was drying.

The light that morning was eerie and special—brown, dusky and infusing all with a strangely muted glow, reflecting off the surface of loch and snow alike. It had snowed a little more in the night, and the clouds promised more. Most of the snow storms blanketed the area further west of my home—the hills behind me diverting and catching most of the snow, but it remained frigid, painful in my finger tips when I left the warmth.

My journal mentions the beautiful night sky, how the cold seemed to make every pinprick of impossibly distant light sharper, clearer, closer somehow. The snow on the ground made sound travel in different ways, deadened, the edges softened and absorbed.

My hand was being forced, and plans were being rewritten. Further to the north and east, I was told the snow was falling heavy and deep and there was a very real chance that if it continued, I would be trapped without the possibility of reaching Caithness for Christmas. I would check my phone several times a day, to find messages from friends deeply concerned that I was out in the woods in those conditions—I am unsure they entirely believed me when I replied that I was enjoying it. Still, contingency plans were being crafted…

That winter, which had begun far earlier than is usual in the UK, was the coldest, with the deepest snow, in generations. By chance, I had chosen the toughest conditions to test myself, to live outwith the comforts of civilisation, and I loved it.

That evening, as I scribbled away in the third Moleskine since leaving civilisation, I kept looking up through the gap in the shelter roof, the stars brilliant again, blazing and twinkling in the cold clear air. After the earlier snow, the clouds had dispersed after the sun went down. I was tempted to go out and take some photos, but it would be bitter in the wind.

Instead, I sat by the fire and plotted a novel, thought more of the past and planned my future. I knew I only had a short time left out in the woods, before I would need to leave to spend Christmas with my family in Caithness. I intended to make the most of the time I had left our there.

I had not walked far this day, the falling snow and the sub-zero windchill meant a walk to refill my water was enough to send me back into my toasty warm shelter. When I did, however, I took my camera along, keeping it warm inside my clothing as best I could.

The local holly tree was being picked over by flocks of redwings, fieldfares, and waxwings, winter visitors, probably heading south and refuelling en route. I loved the berries in the snow below; there is something quintessentially wintry about bright scarlet against the white.

Sometimes, when you are learning a subject and, especially, when you are learning about nature and ancestral skills, you see what your mind wants you to see.

If you remember, weeks and weeks before this point of my adventure, I had found the tracks of a large cat down in the glen. When I found prints on this day, I immediately thought they were of the same cat—they were of a similar size, much bigger than a domestic animal and, because my brain saw what it wanted to see, it completely ignored the fact there was actually an extra toe, and that the trail I followed had at one point entered the stream below.

Now, with considerably more experience in tracking, I know that what I was actually photographing were otter (Lutra lutra) prints, not those of a cat. Learning from mistakes and errors, making the brain see what the eyes observe, is all a part of the journey of nature observation.

I believe it is not only important to acknowledge these things, but also to share them—too often, readers or viewers see few or no mistakes (in various fields), which doesn’t really help their own journey. We make errors, we fail, and that is how we learn. We have to be open to this, and accept it as a crucial part of the path. Own your failure, make it fun, always seek to add your knowledge, and you won’t go wrong.

At that time, I had certainly seen otters, many times, usually from a good distance, before they realised I was there and then vanished. I’d seen their spraint, where they mark places with their strangely jasmine-scented droppings. But I had not spent hours and hours watching and tracking them, as I was to do in coming years.

Otters are lithe, they are like slinkies with fur, so utterly graceful in the water, and playful out of it. I have read of otters climbing snow covered slopes, then sliding down them, before returning to climb once more, and again and again. Some people suggest this is to rid themselves of parasites in the snow but, honestly, I’m pretty sure they just enjoy it. They are creatures who love life, in and out of the water.

Once, several years after the adventure from which I am presently digressing, I was walking Orlando the family Sprocker spaniel, at dawn, as I did for six days out of seven. We reached the small bridge over the River Wick, where we would usually turn back. Orlando was used to my pausing here to take photos, looking back along the river towards the sunrise, so he was sat beside me, as calmly as a spaniel can ever sit.

We both suddenly heard splashing and I crouched down, slowly, resting my hand on him to curb any barking. Coming towards us, upstream in the river, were a mother otter and three kits: a happy and healthy family.

Not only were they splashing, but the young were squeaking, almost constantly, playing with one another, rolling over in the water, then jumping out on to the bank, before returning immediately to the water.

Orlando sat and watched, as rapt as I, silent and barely breathing, lest I gave away my presence.

They came closer and closer, until they were playing directly below where we crouched and sat. They continued to play, to squeak, to scold, to roll and generally revel in the joy of being young and alive and able to swim and bound so effortlessly.

They passed below me and I remained unnoticed.

Eventually, they turned the bend in the river which led to Altimarlach (the site of the last true clan battle in Scotland, fought between between the Sinclairs and the Campbells).

Orlando and I, silent and still for at least ten minutes, stood slowly, looked at each other, and began to walk home.

These moments in time are so powerful they sear themselves into memory, the movements of those otters teaching me so much about them, their play and squeaking—for all the world like small children laughing as they themselves play—an utter joy to witness. Earlier this year, I saw my first French otter, almost within touching distance as it swam down a small, wild river. I had been kneeling, scenting the droppings it had recently left to confirm they were from an otter, when it surfaced incredibly close, entirely unaware of my presence. Another memory, deeply etched into my brain.

My time out in the woods in 2010 was drawing to an end, yet those last days are also carved into my memory. To be out in nature as winter bites, to gather fuel and water and food, to track animals and to watch and hear others as the snow falls—these things are a part of who we are, who we should be, species-wide, and I knew I was merely one in a line stretching so far back in time as to reach the blurring of when we actually became human.

I felt small and I felt light and vast at the same moment, one tiny fragment of a whole, a whole upon which we can all draw, should we need that strength. I think these days, more than ever, we do.

Of Ice and Danger

November the 28th, 2010, dawned cold and clear—far colder than the already sub-zero days before. When I left my shelter that morning, I noticed a wealth of sculptures formed by gravity, water, and the temperature. Icicles everywhere, columns here, sheets of bubbled, frozen water there.

Anyone who knows Scotland also knows how the peat of the moorland holds water like a sponge, slowly releasing drips in nearly all weathers. Those drips come together, flow in rivulets, which form tiny streams—burns—which become larger and faster and deeper, before ultimately flowing into loch or sea. The process is only interrupted in the hottest or the coldest of weathers, when the bogs and the moss guard their waters deeper, hoarding and keeping it from view, allowing their extremities to either bake or freeze.

The lack of rain meant those drips had already slowed, my small pool and burn too dry to gather my water. Now, there was a further problem—an array of crystal chandeliers, sparkling in the sunlight like diamond and, to me, worth as much—so much ice was holding the water back from the burn and, if it was this cold where I was, further upstream it would be far colder.

I was, however, entranced by the sculptures and took many photographs, trying my best to capture the sparkle and shine, the purity and sheer wonder of nature providing yet another example of unparalleled art.

But I also had to be careful. Although the air was crisp and clear and nothing thawed on this day, the sheer weight of the ice would sometimes rip their moss anchor free from the rock to which it clung. This can be seen in one of my photographs, this icicle falling and landing next to me as I walked back to my shelter. I did not fancy being impaled by a falling spear of ice.

I also wondered if the cold was affecting my brain. At one point on this day, I was not as careful as I usually was when felling a long-dead oak for firewood. It was not a vast tree, with a diameter of around 20cm (8”) and about eleven or twelve metres tall (36’ to 39’), but it was heavy enough, nonetheless, and did not fall in the direction I had intended, bounced off another nearby tree to head straight at me. I was fast and fortunate, in that I moved quickly enough that it only caught my shoulder a glancing blow before catching in the tree behind me but, had I been a step to the left, it would have hit me on my head.

After this experience, which certainly sent the adrenaline flowing, I cut the oak into logs and stayed close to my fire for the rest of the day, writing, smoking my pipe, drinking hot tea after tea, and eating. Enough danger for one day—unless you include trying to take a relatively decent photograph of the length of my beard...

A Move into the Endgame

Cleaning my billy can is getting tougher and tougher. Simply because all the sphagnum is frozen solid. The icicles are longer this morning and I will take some more photos later. The wind is making it bone-chillingly cold outside.

Journal Three. 29th November, 2010.

Gathering fuel was a tough experience, yet crucial to my survival. By the time I had collected, carried and processed the oak logs, I could no longer feel the tips of my fingers or toes. It took some time to warm up.

I learnt from these lessons, ensuring that the next pair of boots I bought were much larger than my current ones, with room for thicker socks and, crucially, layers of them (I now favour Swedish snow boots for winter conditions, more than 80 years old but still working perfectly, along with two or three pairs of woollen socks. I don’t want cold feet again). I also ensured I had more than fingerless gloves and leather work gloves—mittens are just so much better in the deeper cold. Amusingly, following this learnt experience, when I went back out there the following year, the temperature only dropped below freezing once.

My adventure was coming to an end. Or, more correctly, this particular woodland shelter adventure was coming to a certain end—I was determined to keep having adventures, and that one has stayed with me, ever since.

Due to the weather conditions and the possibility of road and rail routes becoming blocked, I arranged to be picked up in Fort William by my parents so I could spend Christmas with them up in the north of Scotland. My extraction day would be on the 3rd of December, four days short of twelve weeks out there. They would be driving back north, following a visit to relatives in England, and were kind enough to offer to make the detour to the west coast.

These plans would soon fall apart, thanks to the weather.

On this day, I took more photographs of the ice, new sculptures growing and others merging, collaborating, the sunlight ensuring a constant supply of subjects. It was fascinating to see where the water seeped from, and where there was no ice. If I had wanted to build another shelter, perhaps against one of the bigger rocks, I could have used this information to ensure it did not receive a constant drip of moisture. As it was, I was happy with the location I had chosen.

I also snapped several photographs inside the shelter itself, to try and preserve the space, serve as reminders for when I left. The sun was low in the sky and the angle sent beams through a tiny gap in the thatching by the door.

With the temperature outside so low, I kept my poncho door closed all day, the light bringing out the smoke-stained colouring, like old, preserved skin, perhaps a Siberian mummy, or Ötzi the Iceman.

The beauty of having a small home was that I had a place for everything and everything went in its place; I could move around in the dark, if I needed to, and find everything, which made life much easier.

The pictures I took after sunset, looking into my shelter, are blurry, but they serve to remind me of that welcoming warmth and glow. Looking at them now, I can remember just how cold it was outside and how quickly I had to shed layers when I entered my woodland home, fingers prickling in the heat.

Little did I know that the photographs I took late that afternoon would be the last sunset I captured on the west coast that year. Although the weather was simply bitterly cold where I was, much of the rest of Britain was experiencing record-breaking snowfalls, and my hand would be forced, very soon.

To Experience a Thing

November the 30th, 2010, followed another night where (I would later discover) the temperature had dipped substantially below freezing. One source suggested -14°c (7F) nearby, another -16°c (3F) and a third even lower, suggesting -20°c (-4F).

When I awoke, however, I was a lot warmer than the previous morning, learning from my mistakes—eating well before bed, piling the fire higher, slightly altering my tarp to cover part of the smoke hole above, and tightening all the baffles on my sleeping bag as soon as I got in.

I went to check my phone, once I had warmed the battery enough to persuade it to come back to life. As I am sure you know by now, there was no cellular signal at Four Skull Shack, so I walked downhill and checked for messages.

I had several. Friends who were worried I would be freezing to death out in the icebound winter woods, those struggling to keep warm with their own central heating and double-glazing, unable to understand that, despite a hole in my roof and a house made of sticks and moss, I was warm and cosy within, the fire keeping everything warm enough to sit in few layers, at least until I went to sleep—then my sleeping bag, with added merino and wool clothing, meant I was not going to die.

I tried to reassure them, but it was not easy—people need to experience a thing to understand it, and what I was doing was outwith the experience of most. Ironically, replying to those messages was the coldest point of any day, when I had to sit and type, my fingers freezing as I did so.

Crucially, when I checked my phone, there was also a voicemail from my Mum, saying they would no longer be heading south to England, as the roads through the border region were all impassable, with much more snow forecast.

My extraction plan was scuppered and we had to come up with an alternative, and fast. I was running out of supplies, so would have to choose between making a long hike to resupply to get more food, in case I got stuck out in the woods, or heading to Fort William, then to Inverness and further north.

I had enough food to last a little while, but it would be rather bland—nourishing, yes, but rather boring. A resupply hike would easily see me to Christmas. I had plenty of local options for fuel, dead standing oak, or those trees which had fallen and were propped in others. Fire and warmth was not an issue and did not worry me.

What I was worried about was what might happen after a thaw. Two weeks of no rain meant little water, other than that trapped as ice but, I knew, if the temperatures rose and the snow further upstream were to melt, my easily crossed burn would become a raging torrent. I had seen it happen already, and it would be dangerous to cross carrying a heavy pack, with no alternative.

I kept thinking, trying to weigh up the pros and cons, discussing them via messages with my family.

As I did, I would sometimes hear what sounded like glass bottles smashing against rocks, the icicles ripping their moss tethers free, giving in to gravity. The ground was solid, sphagnum like concrete, rough where once it was soft, hard and unyielding where once it would give and pull me into wet bog below.

My parents offered to pick me up from Inverness if I could make my way there, which left the simple option of a train to Fort William and then the onward bus to the capital of the Highlands, or spending longer out in my shelter after resupplying (relatively) locally.

I checked different weather forecasts, several times, and they all suggested more heavy snow and sub-zero temperatures, before a possible thaw around the time I would leave, if I did decide to stay longer.

A very big part of me wanted to stay out in the cold longer but, in the end, it was cold, hard logic which won. I had the opportunity to leave, before I was stuck out there and the option taken out of my hands. It made sense. Those friends of mine, still messaging to check I had not become an icicle myself, would be happy to hear I was heading back to civilisation.

My sister,

Lydia Crow

, organised my bus ticket from Fort William to Inverness and I started to pack and tidy my shelter—I knew I would be back, and had already decided to leave it up.

As soon as I made that decision to leave—the following morning, December the 1st, 2010—I immediately began to envisage a hot bath and perhaps a glass of wine.

What I didn’t know at that time was how difficult things were to become, before that could be an option…

What About You?

If you are UK-based, what are your memories of the winter in 2010/2011? Did you get out into the nature, feel that bitter cold with every breath? Have you also developed an addiction to tracking animals, trying to piece together those puzzles and mysteries left behind by living creatures? And do you enjoy learning from your mistakes, failing, then failing better, until something just works, or does that frustrate?

The journey of the sunset, October the 16th on the left, November the 29th on the right.

Finally

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Many thanks for reading,

Alex