A Fall In Time: Week Five
13th to the 19th of October, 2010
Hello! Somehow we are at week five of this adventure already. Still, that’s not even half way, so plenty more to share yet.
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. And here’s the fifth week of A Fall In Time.
Introduction: Changes
Five weeks in the woods. By any measure, this is a long time to stay out amongst nature but, to me at the time, it felt perfectly normal and, dare I say it, natural. Before I left the city, I had thought I would begin to miss certain aspects of the less-wild world, but that had not materialised. Instead, I only wished more of my friends and family—and even total strangers—could experience the changes which went along with life in the woods.
These changes are twofold, firstly, the changes we experience in the day-to-day nature, the march of the seasons, the sudden chill in the shadows, and the bellow of the deer. Then there are the changes to the self, to how we begin to notice more, inhaling the world around us, drawing it in until it is enfolded, embraced as a part of a new whole.
This particular week, the weather was noticeably more autumnal. Sharp and heavy hail storms lashed my shelter, and the temperature began to inch its way downward. The deer were in full rut, the sound at times tremendous, waking me. They did not seem to care about my presence, there were far more important things to be doing.
Below is a rather bad video of that soundtrack of my nights, and parts of my days. Filmed on a Canon SX20IS camera, it is not the best quality, especially by today’s standards, but it might give you an idea of the clashing of antler and roaring of stag. Not to mention the changing colours of the oak woods. Taken at dawn on the 16th of October, 2010.
I shall weave images throughout this piece, mostly taken from that day, the 16th of October, when I snapped a lot of images—and concentrated on thatching my shelter on the others.
Roar and Roar Alike
This evening there was a stag just down the hill from where I am. I had a go at roaring at him, and he answered.
Journal One. 13th October 2010.
The 13th was the day I decided to move into my shelter to sleep, rigging my tarp up inside, above the area where I planned to put my bed. With that, I was totally weatherproof, centrally-heated, and could cook on the fire, even if the shelter itself was not yet finished. It already felt cosy and, I suspected, would only grow more so as the temperature dropped.
I initially placed my hammock on the ground, to use the inbuilt midge and mosquito net around my sleeping bag to deter spiders, slugs, beetles, and other creatures from sharing my warmth. For the first nights, this was not as comfortable as it could have been but, once I had done some more ground levelling where I slept, it became much better (and I had a much more ideal and elegant, comfortable solution to come).
All of my day was taken up by thatching the shelter—it required prodigious quantities of heather, although if there is one thing Scotland is not short of, it is heather. This had to be laboriously pulled up by hand, piled, then carried back to camp in my now rather scratched and battered poncho I also used as a door. I would dump a load and return, until I was exhausted—then I would use all I had collected to thatch, before repeating the whole process, again and again.
I had been surprised that the stag had roared back at me, as my red deer roar is pretty rubbish. When I went out for a look, he ran off at full tilt, those sinewy legs carrying him quickly above a slope I would have laboured up only with considerable effort. As a recompense for not getting a photo, I found an old deer skull instead. I placed this outside the shelter by the doorway, on top of one of the two giant rocks to either side.
I now had a name for my new home—One Skull Shack.
Of Mice, Skulls, and Parasites
There’s a little wood mouse in the SW corner, near my head, I have seen him already this morning, he seems to know no fear. I may feed him peanut butter and take some photos.
Journal One. 14th October 2010.
This entry was recorded before I discovered that the mouse had chewed holes in the new dry bags I had bought as part of my resupply a couple of days earlier. Those bags had been bought to replace the others that mice had chewed at an earlier camp and, despite being suspended on paracord, they were clearly too close to the horizontal shelter beams—a luxurious walkway for a mouse. I learnt from this experience and ensured the paracord length was much longer and, fortunately, I lost little food this time.
These mistakes are irritating, but they also serve to remind me I am but a small part of a vast, overall picture. The wren that flew in as I prepared breakfast, was another reminder of this (Troglodytes troglodytes, she was at home in my artificial cave). She alighted on the bench beside me, about ten centimetres from my hand, tiny dark eye fixed on mine for a moment, then off she went to catch another spider from the heather thatching above our heads. Both mouse and wren were good for keeping down the numbers of insect residents, and both were to stay close during my own sojourn in the shelter.
Nothing in nature is wasted and, despite what others may tell you, it is neither cruel nor kind. It just is. The old skull I had found the previous day had been nibbled by rodents, and was missing part of the front of the head, perhaps pecked or chewed away to get at the contents within. Everything out on those hills and in the woods had something else to eat it—whether predator or parasite, nothing was spared. My own mortal enemy was the tick, and I was constantly on my guard against these tiny, but very persistent creatures. The midges, the bane of the first few weeks, were now gone, thanks to the cold nights.
I noted in my journal how sound was now travelling much further, as the leaves fell from the forest, able to hear each train (there were not very many each day!), and occasionally a distant car engine. It did not seem to deter the deer, however, who were roaring frantically, certain individuals increasingly hoarse. I could now tell each stag by his roar, and was considering naming each, perhaps using Greek gods or heroes.
My first night sleeping in the shelter was not as comfortable as I would have liked, but that could be remedied with a little work and, on this day, I started designing a better bed in my journal (along with an oven and raised fireplace).
The heat from the fire was already being trapped and contained by the heather thatching (I had a small arm-length square to finish, but there was constant rain, and the idea of gathering soaking wet heather was not appealing), and it was noticeable how much warmer it actually was, even with the relatively large hole in the middle for the smoke (and sparks) to leave.
When I went to collect water, I was surprised by just how much warmth the shelter had retained when I returned—it was working even better than my expectations, possibly partly due to the superb quality of the seasoned oak I was burning.
Forwards-Time Anniversaries
October the 15th, 2010, was another day with no photographs, although on the 16th I more than made up for this, taking 126—leaving me, future Alex, to try and pick a small selection to share with you.
My journal from that day also recorded the fact I was conscious I needed to reacquire my habit of recording events and thoughts in detail, rather than note form. I had been busy, thatching, tidying and sorting the shelter, and gathering firewood—a task which, as the old saying goes, keeps you warm three times: first when collected and carried, second when prepared, sawn and split, and finally, when burnt.
It was a good thing I gathered plenty of fuel. The weather had been cold and damp all week, with rain soaking everything. In my shelter, with my layers of wool and a fire, I was warm, if not entirely dry. Whenever I went out to pee, or collect wood or water, I often came back soaked to my underwear, despite Gore-Tex on top of the woollens. Yet this was the west coast of Scotland, an area of temperate rainforest where water was life and water was everywhere, intrinsic to the landscape.
(The following fall, when I also spent weeks out in the woods, it was much, much wetter, raining almost non-stop for three weeks at one point. That was difficult, seeing no sun at all. The little burn [stream] I would collect my water from, normally easily crossed in a big jump, became swollen and dangerous, ten times as wide and much more fierce.)
Even when I was within the wood and heather walls of my shelter, the wildlife still came to visit. I have already mentioned the wood mouse, the robin, and the wren, and my journal from this day records the visit of a noisy family of shrews, moving together along the base of the walls, shrieking, calling, squeaking, seemingly constantly angry with something or someone or the world in general.
My camera was hung up and in its case to protect against the damp and the smoke, and I did not dare move, lest I frighten the tiny creatures. Instead I sat still and watched as they rushed around catching spiders, craneflies and anything else that seemed like a tasty morsel. They are enchanting little creatures—although sitting observing them showed just why they have such a reputation for ill manners.
In my journal, I list messages I had received, things that were happening in the outside world, the world beyond the trees and soundtrack of roaring deer, calling little birds, and crying eagles. I noted that I said my goodbyes to the woman I had been in a complicated relationship with before leaving Sheffield, at her request. She mentioned waiting until I was back from the woods, waiting until Christmas and the New Year, and perhaps meeting up in Paris if we still felt the same way. We never did, but I shamelessly stole that idea and worked it into the beginning of The Town at the End of the World, the second novel in The Greater Good (still to be published), so it was not wasted. As emotional as my journal reminds me I was, I was still happy with my choices, as I also recorded the following line:
I love it here, despite it being so tough when it is cold and damp.
Journal One. 15th of October, 2010
On this day, in more practical events, I levelled the area of the floor where I was now sleeping, in order to make a better bed. After, I wove a neck sheath for my main knife, as having it on my belt was proving impractical now I was wearing my longer coat most of the time and I didn’t have a second belt to place over my smock. Finally, I sharpened all my tools, something that is often neglected by those who only play at “survival skills”. Indeed, I have known people who have bought a new knife rather than bother to learn to sharpen one, which is ridiculous.
This behaviour is alien to me—I have had one of my knives for nearly forty years now, my main sheath knife—the one I use the most [an Iisakki Järvenpää puukko if you like that sort of thing]—more than twenty-five, and my usual axe approaching twenty.
When I was much younger, I was not allowed knives, my Mum hates the things, equating them with violence, as many of the population of the UK sadly seem to do these days. I got around this by making a knife for myself, using an old Sheffield steel butter knife I found at my Granny’s, from where it had been lost whilst gardening (she used a couple of these knives to remove moss from the footpath). I laboriously ground this with a piece of sandstone to reshape the blade, then learnt to sharpen it, also using a piece of natural Orcadian sandstone. I proceeded to make a sheath from an old belt and used the leather from an old moccasin slipper to make the bone handled grip thicker, learning how to wrap a handle.
I still have this knife today, and it is still kept sharp, the leather well oiled from my hands. A blunt blade is a disaster waiting to happen—more force is applied than should be used for a cut, exponentially increasing the chances of slipping and cutting oneself. Sharper knives are simply safer, once you know how to use one. (EDITOR’S NOTE TO SELF: I really need to have a good sharpening session soon, it is a therapy and meditation of its own.)
Perhaps if children were routinely taught to appreciate a knife as a tool, learn to handle them, care for them, reshape them for their own needs, I wonder—how they would view them?
On this day—the 15th of October, 2010, I had no idea that, eleven years later, my daughter Ailsa would be born. At the time, I was trying very hard to work out who I was, and what I wanted to achieve in life and I was sure children were nowhere on that list. Now, I am at the point where I am wondering when I can make Ailsa her first sheath knife, how old she should be (soon, I think). Forwards anniversaries are strange things.
I started taking photographs with the dawn, a pink glow to the east, then walked and explored my way through the day until the sun set. I took photos of the view from my door, of the deer trails, and of where they fought night after night. I even took a photo of me. I ended the day as I had begun, with the sun, this time as she disappeared over the ridge to the west, dipping into the Atlantic beyond, already a bit further south of where she had been when I first began to build my shelter.
On this day, my journal records the thoughts I had been considering on the issue of compromise in our lives, how different it can be depending on the exact circumstances, how sometimes it can feel like chipping away at the soul until we feel something is missing, that there must be more to life. I ended that section of my journal with this line, a line I still very much believe in, but often have to remind myself to actually follow through:
Make choices based on a bigger picture…but never lose sight of your vision.
Journal One. 16th of October, 2010.
Of Things Bitey
I snapped no photos on the 17th of October, 2010, other than a series of journal pages on which I had crafted a blog for my sister’s site. I would not take any more photographs until the 20th, while I worked hard on completing the shelter thatching, making it thicker and warmer.
I did keep writing in my journal and one note records that I started some Christmas presents for my family, using the wood, bone, and stone of the area in which I was living. I felt like I was settling in.
The variety of insect life in this region was quite amazing, with beautiful butterflies, huge and pretty spiders, shining beetles and many other types of scurrying, crawling, flying, or wriggling wildlife—all fed something larger. This variety was at odds with parts of the UK I knew, especially in England, where insect numbers have plummeted over recent decades to the point where it is a dire emergency—all thanks to our own destruction of the nature.
There, in my small slice of temperate rainforest, I had to contend with midges, mosquitoes, the clegs, the centipedes that would clamber inside your clothes, the spiders that would do likewise—and, worst of all in my opinion, the many, many ticks, some carrying Lyme disease, hungry to suck the blood of a deer or, failing that, a tasty human.
For whatever reason (perhaps my blood group, AB- ? But who really knows?), I am one of those people who seems to be just such a tasty example—all things bitey are attracted to me, much to my chagrin and the relief of friends and family who are duly mostly ignored. (The rise in Lyme-carrying ticks in the UK is also our fault—too many deer and a warming environment have introduced this dubious legacy.)
Although I loved this area, it was not simple to live within, by any means, shape, or form—sometimes I worry that the photos and pieces I share do not accurately portray life out there on those slopes. There were several negative things to deal with but, for me, these were vastly outweighed by the many positives. I have, however, shared camps with others who have found the wilder parts of the world too difficult, not the same as the romantic image they had created in their head, too tough, too wet, too cold, too windy, too many midges, clegs, ticks...
In all the many months I spent* out there—my 2010 adventure and the one the following year, along with others—I never once had a tick manage to attach itself to me. This is through knowledge, awareness, good equipment and training myself to observe, constantly. And probably a decent side helping of luck, something I am naturally fortunate to have.
To me, these things are all a part of a landscape I love and, although exceptionally irritating at times, they can be tolerated for all the other beauty that surrounds them—and they certainly underpin the food web.
Winter felt like she was whispering and the deer, voice-breaking, hoarse roar after roar, and their increasingly frantic clashing, seemed to agree, their urgency raising tempo and decibels both.
*was I actually spending time out there, or was I saving it? This is a question I often ponder.
Of Shopping Lists and Eagles
As I mentioned yesterday, I have no photos from either the 18th or the 19th of October, 2010. My journal records the heavy storm that swept through in the night, the hail storms that lashed my shelter during the day, with an accompanying, considerable, temperature drop, then the sudden, sharp and cold blue skies later.
I made a new wooden spoon for stirring my billy can, as I had foolishly cracked the previous one I had carved, when I left it too close to the fire. The previous one was not wasted, however, as it made a good scoop for ashes, used in cooking. My Christmas presents were also progressing, with various raw materials sourced and collected and ideas sketched out in my moleskine.
After talking to my sister Lydia Crow (who was the editor/owner of Shiverwriggle, the literary website where my wilderness journal/blog was initially shared), I decided to write a shopping list for things I could not find locally, or certainly could not get cheaply in the local area, such as a replacement ferro rod and a planisphere, so I could study the night sky in more detail. In those days, there were no apps to help and, even if there were, cell phone charge was a premium currency.
The idea was that she parcel them up once purchased, and post them to a local post office, poste restante. I carried my passport, so had requisite ID, and could time picking up the parcel with buying extra supplies if I needed them. I could not do this in Fort William, as the clocks would soon be changing and, coupled with shorter and darker days, this change meant I could not catch a train and get back home in the daylight.
I am not afraid of the dark, nor of the things that move around in it—but neither am I stupid—walking back to my camp, carrying a large pack full of heavy supplies, crossing a fast flowing burn, avoiding the hidden gaps and holes around the tree roots and boulders, would NOT be sensible. It was hard enough in full daylight. Even with my ever present walking staff, I could not trust to the light from my headtorch. This in mind, I pondered a final trip to Fort William, before the clock change, for enough staple foodstuffs to see me through to Christmas.
The deer, who gone strangely silent during the day, following their increase in volume, started to roar again and I surprised a pair of hinds when I went to refill my water. Of course, since my head was full of lists, suitable websites for outdoor gear, and other things civilised, I forgot to take my camera with me when I refilled my water bags. It is interesting how even a small dose of civilisation could affect my routine; had I not forgotten the camera I would have captured some close shots, as I approached the deer from upwind, their heads down at the water, those ever-twisting ears failing to catch my approach.
These missed photo opportunities, whilst mildly irritating, do not really matter—I have the memory of this meeting and a paragraph to remind me in my journal.
Similarly, there were several times I could have captured a fantastic photo of the local golden eagle, swooping and spiralling low above me, always when I was at the toilet, my camera back in the shelter…
I began to suspect that the eagle hid nearby, only flying above me when it knew I was answering the call of nature. Some form of avian, aquiline trolling.
Watching it being mobbed by the local three buzzards was spectacular, and would have made an amazing photo; perfectly demonstrating just how much bigger the eagle is than the buzzard (which is commonly mistaken for an eagle by tourists in Scotland). When the local crows joined in, this would have been even better for a size comparison.
Or the time I looked up from burning my toilet paper and saw it carrying a whole deer leg away, wings beating to carry it higher and higher, eventually disappearing into the east.
In some ways these memories are even more precious than those I managed to capture on an SD card—their image is burned within my head, and will never diminish, especially when coupled with the words in my journal. I still remember literally gasping at that sight and the fizz and buzz of adrenaline which followed, breath catching in my throat and eyes wide. This physical reaction, entwined with the mental and emotional, left the memory one I will treasure and, hopefully, retain for years to come.
I often thought back to the very first day of this adventure, to what that old man on the last train of my journey had told me:
‘What you are doing is banking for the future.’
And how utterly right he was.
Lateral, Resourceful Thinking, and Beds
The 19th of October, 2010, marked the point I had been out in the woods for five weeks. Five weeks since I had last slept in a “proper” bed, since I had left the city I had called home for the preceding nine years, since I had staggered under the weight of my pack, down a small road, off to a small track, then along a rough path and finally along a meandering deer trail to where I first camped.
In this time, I had moved camp three times and had started to call the stretch of coastland, woods and the surrounding hills home. I was not doing what I had originally set out to do—walk along the coast northward—but this did not matter. I was happy, alone in the woods, learning more and more about the wildlife of the area, the geology, the archaeology and, most importantly, about me.
I was starting to think in increasingly lateral ways, problems solved creatively. I would see a use in rubbish found along the beaches or find dual, or triple—or more—purpose in many of the items of equipment I carried.
I have never been rich or comfortable with money, and I have a complicated relationship with the stuff. I think this partly lies behind the fact I have also always been resourceful, prepared to approach things in a different way—but being out in the hills, alone, was honing this, taking it to a new level, and I was enjoying the results.
The thatching of the shelter was progressing well, in between the showers of rain and hail, and I also constructed a bed from logs and driftwood on this day. The really ingenious part of the plan was to use the webbing straps that attached my hammock to trees, and weave them around big logs, thus creating a sprung mattress of sorts. The logs were carefully levelled using the tiny spirit level from my gorillapod camera tripod, then staked into place with paracord lashing and a thick log spreader between both the head and foot ends.
My hammock (and integral insect netting) went on top, with my roll mat and thermarest beneath my down sleeping bag (with a silk liner inside and a waterproof and breathable bivi bag in turn outside). Although I took no photos at all on the 19th, I did take a couple of (bad) phone camera pictures of the bed when I was leaving the shelter, much later. I will share one today, to illustrate this piece.
My journal for the 19th records the items I collected from the woods on this day: a penny bun (cep, or boletus) fungus to add to my dinner, some more dried rhododendron branches to patch up the very top of the shelter, some more heather to thatch, some firewood, some deer bone, a rowan sapling to use as resilient stakes (for the bed) and some of the last blackberries for my dessert.
The daytime temperature was beginning to feel considerably cooler and the hail storms were often preceded by a sudden and noticeable drop. As I went to bed that night, I noted in my journal that I was sure the temperature outside was dipping below freezing, the moon bright, sparkling and shining through the trees above the shelter, with an iridescent halo where the thin smoke from my fire drifted across her face.
Five weeks in the woods. I was beginning to feel very much at home indeed.
What About You?
Do you love to take photographs of natural phenomena, whether sunrise or sunset, moonshadow, rainbow, storm, or snow, or any other marvel we live amongst? Do you hear deer roaring where you live (or bugling, if you are in wapiti country? Or any of the other ridiculous, varied seasonal cervid noises!)? Do you have a fire or stove in your home, and how does burning wood for fuel make you feel? And have you noticed an increase in ticks where you live?
Detail Diary
Over the last year, I have found great pleasure and a surprisingly deep well of support through following
and, especially, her daily detail diaries. In her words, Anne is “an ecologist at CNRS, France studying at the intersection of plant ecology, biogeography, and climate change”.Her knowledge of our natural world is deep and, better still, she is always, always looking to add to this. Too many people (often, especially, men of a certain age and background) with a high level of knowledge in a subject refuse to openly acknowledge there is more to learn, and following Anne has definitely helped me add an incredible amount to my own brain vaults.
Recently, she celebrated a year of her detail diary, and I really think everyone would benefit from following this. To be reminded of all the details in our day-to-day existence is to be reminded we are alive, and there is wonder and mystery in the world. In her words:
A year ago, I started this Detail Diary. It’s been a fruitful and grounding practice: over 300 entries and 20 volumes. I love the way my entries have traced my daily commutes and arboretum walks and sometimes drawn me off those paths. Leaves, creatures, sky, colors, words. Starting the year over, it’s time to start retracing the seasons I’ve documented here.
Go and have a peek! She has remarkable essays on a range of fascinating topics; whether plants or places, ranging from Grenoble’s street art to Lycophytes, her letter is a treasure trove.
Finally
To read the introduction to my autumnal 2010 adventure, click here.
To go back to Week Four, click here.
I hope you are enjoying reading this revisited journey as much as I enjoy sharing it. If you have liked it, please share with anyone else you think may enjoy the adventure.
I truly appreciate every share, like, and comment. I will reply to everyone who leaves a message—sometimes it just takes a little longer than others.
Thanks for reading,
Alex
Thanks so much for the lovely and thoughtful shoutout, Alex!
Wow! What an adventure. Do you find writing about your time in nature adds to your appreciation? Or is it a distraction? How do you feel about bothies?