A Fall In Time: Week Nine

10th to the 16th of November, 2010

Today is the birthdate of both my sister and my belle-mère. When I was out in the woods, back in 2010, I had already considered the notion of ghost dates, those points on the calendar which once meant something. Perhaps the birthday of a friend you are no longer in touch with, or an anniversary with a partner from whom you’ve since separated.

There is a section in my journal from this week, fourteen years ago, about this, about collecting ghost dates from the past but, strangely, I never considered the idea of future ghost dates. Seeing as this premise lays behind arguably the second most famous Christmas tale of all time, the idea of ghosts of the future was not one I thought of.

I wonder how many more dates will become important in my life, dates I cannot predict, replacing those which slowly fade from memory.

The longer I stayed in the woods, the deeper my thinking went, as though I was rid of the background noise society brings, allowing me to process and work on subjects beyond those I had previously investigated, buried deeper and drowned out.

This week was not all good, however. I was sick, very sick, and at the start of the week, it was touch and go as to whether I would need to leave.

My shelter was pretty much complete by this point of my adventure, at least on the outside.

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 ninth week of A Fall In Time.

Being Prepared

The 10th of November, 2010, dawned with me feeling no worse, but little better. I would cycle through intense periods of discomfort, shivering then roasting, and all the while feeling weaker than I had for a long time.

I had to leave my shelter to get some water, but could only manage to carry one of the pair of water bags, also leaving my water bottles behind. Fortunately, with all the recent rain, a small stream had begun to flow near to where I had discovered the patch of mobile phone signal. Fortunately, when I had discovered it, a few days earlier, I had scooped out a bowl-shaped depression in the flow, to later be able to fill my water much closer to my shelter. This meant I did not have to walk far, but the normally ten minute process, including the walk there and back, took nearly half an hour.

Just taking a step uphill felt like I was struggling through thin air atop a mountain and I relied on my staff to stop myself slipping, pausing every few steps to regain my breath.

Later in the day, I felt well enough to write in my journal once more, recording the events of the previous day. As I scribbled, I couldn’t help but think of how being prepared, with a stock of wood, a well-kept first aid kit, and quality equipment and clothing is crucial. Without the old Baden-Powell adage, I would certainly have been in a lot worse state.

I also gave a lot of thought to how much we take for granted. Whether the National Health Service in the UK, or the support and comfort of others who care.

As I went to bed that night, I was still very sick, shaking and cold, deep inside, but I had lost my headache, at least. The fire kept me warm and I was so grateful for such a simple, ancient thing. There is a true wonder to fire, at all times, but when you are sick, alone in the woods, it becomes everything.

At that point, I was still unsure whether I would be able to stay out there, knowing only time would tell.

Healing

The storm frightened me and everything seemed wrong…

Journal Two. 11th of November, 2010

This was another day with no photos and precious few notes. I was still sick, still spending my time by the fire, staying warm, staying hydrated. I did begin to eat more on this day, but it was a struggle. My brain was confused and the heavy rain and lashing winds in the night added to this feeling.

As I could not leave my shelter for long at all, apart from the normally short walk to the water source, and writing made my head ache, I studied the fire and I looked more closely at the rocks on two sides of my shelter. I knew the rest of it well, having built it branch by branch, twig by twig, leaf by leaf, yet the rocks still harboured secrets.

For a start, the one nearest my head, behind the bench I had built, was not one solid piece of stone, as I had initially thought. Instead, behind the blanket of moss, there was a cleft, with other cracked rocks within, one of which was a large cuboid shape. This began to give me an idea—to build up a raised fireplace and incorporate an oven within it. Sadly, that year, I did not even start this project but the following one, when I returned to live in my shelter again, I did.*

At that time, however, I was too weak to move even the smaller rocks, but I did remove some moss (adding it to the outside of my shelter, so as to not waste it), and found some lovely swirling patterns in the metamorphic rock. I began to consider adding further decoration, but only once I was better—I had long wanted to do some cave painting and this tiny cleft was the perfect spot, dry and safe from the incursion of water. (I also wondered how far back the cleft went, whether I could keep pulling rocks out from between the larger boulders, make a small cave of sorts.

Watching the little birds come and sit above my fire, and then the owls at night, along with the ever-present wood mouse and visiting family of shrews meant I did not feel as lonely as I had when I was at my sickest. I knew I still needed time to recover but, by bedtime, I was beginning to feel like I might be able to sleep properly again, exhausted despite having done very little, but also thankful that this little corner of woodland had looked after me through the worst of my sickness.

Sometimes, it is like this—as I walked, I would collect acorns and plant them in hard-to-reach places, to stop the deer from killing them too young. Perhaps the land looked after me in return, perhaps the owls really were there to watch over me at night, the wren and robin during the day. Whatever the truth, I found that I felt a strange peace during that day, as I kept my family and friends on standby, with a final call on a medi-vac to come the next morning.

*The photo here is one from 2011, when I was in the process of building my fireplace and oven. You can see the oven to the left, with the large block I mention left of this (I had to use oak rollers to move this into position, it was so heavy). I carried lots of pebbles up from the beach to fill the large mass of rock, and neatly fit a roof and door to the oven, using clay for any small gaps. In this photo, I had yet to complete the oven structure, and also yet to add a layer of sand on top, which provided an excellent place for my fire. The mass of rocks behind the fire was constructed to reflect heat back into the shelter, as well as store it during the day, radiating after I let the fire die in the night. My shelter door is to the right.

Stripping Away the Protective Coating of a Mind

I woke up in the night once, as far as I can remember—a good night’s sleep, but wracked with powerful dreams. The mouse was there the time I woke up, probably pleading for cheese and for me not to leave him.

Journal Two. 12th November 2010.

I was feeling a lot better by the time I went to sleep on this day, more human, more whole. I knew it had been a close run thing, but I thought I was getting better. I would take it easy—or as easy as I could, at least. There was still water, fuel, and food to gather and process—but, by this day, I knew I would not need to leave the woods prematurely.

I managed to drag back a few pieces of wood, to process for the fire at a later date—the effort exhausted me, but I could slowly feel some strength returning, nevertheless.

When I had been really sick, my brain had been focused on strange things, the big questions of where I should go next, what I should—and could—do, rules for future relationships, and thoughts on relationships past. Sitting and staring into a fire for hour after hour, with few external, modern-world distractions to consider, meant I had reached something of a meditative state, my illness stripping away some of the extra layers of protective coating my mind usually provided, leaving all raw, difficult and, at many times, uncomfortable.

Looking back now, with the safe and neat distance of fourteen years, I think a lot of my personal emotional and mental healing was done in those few days of sickness. It was not fun, especially since I felt so ill, but I believe it was necessary.

I recorded many lines in my journal, ideas for what came next, but some of them would still take me years to achieve, others I am still working on now—we are always an unfinished work. If you ever meet anyone who tells you they are the finished product, I would advise extreme caution—there are always new things to learn, different ways to be.

To grow is a lifelong journey.

Fires and Failure (or not)

I haven’t recorded anything in here yet today for the simple reason I’ve been too wet. My ink would have run everywhere. Even now, at 1933, I’m still damp, and I have been gently steaming by the fire for over three hours.

Journal Two. 13th November 2010.

I had no choice but to get wet and literally steam. As I had been confined to my shelter while I was ill, I had nearly used up all my fuel supplies, leaving me with no choice but to venture out to gather and process firewood. I became soaked, even through the Gore-Tex, but I was warm, thanks to the layers of wool I wore. This was not the first time I was glad I had not dressed exclusively in modern, synthetic fibres, nor would it be the last. Wool really is a wonderful fibre, there’s a reason those mountain sheep can withstand freezing cold, days of rain and wind, and then baking hot summer temperatures.

The rain on this day was strong and constant and I was glad my strength was returning, allowing me to gather and cut wood once more. To be able to walk normally, without needing to stop and catch my breath felt like a true blessing. So often in life, we only recall and focus on those negative moments, when we are sick or when we are sad, for example, rather than pausing and acknowledging that, right now, I feel good, I feel strong and capable, I feel happy and content. This habit is one I try very hard to implement, even though it does not come naturally to me.

Lighting the fire on this morning was the toughest I had faced. The rain had been hard, vertical, and unrelenting, the burn (stream) in the glen below no longer a gentle trickle, but a raging torrent. Now that the storms had ripped away many of the leaves from the tree above, the shelter’s chimney hole was no longer as adequately protected when it rained. This was only a problem as I had no spare fuel to pile on the fire overnight—had I not been sick, I would have had enough to keep the fire going. As it was, it was nearly midday before I managed to succeed in fire lighting, and by then I was somewhat gasping for a cup of tea.

I have spoken before about failure, and how important it is to grow and learn yet, in some ways, I am of a mind with Thomas Edison, who was once asked,

“Isn’t it a shame that with the tremendous amount of work you have done, you haven’t been able to get any results?”

To which he apparently replied:

“Results! Why, man, I have gotten a lot of results! I know several thousand things that won’t work.”

That morning, trying over and over to light a fire and, in the eyes of many, failing over and over, I did not once think of it like that—I knew I would succeed, there was no other possible option in my mind, it was just a matter of time. When one thing didn’t work, I tried another. And another, and so on.

Failure, in my eyes, should not be an end product*. It is a step towards success. Sometimes, it is many steps, yet each ultimately leads to the same location. In this way, failure becomes a friend of sorts, a companion to smile with, wryly perhaps, but a smile, nevertheless.

On this day, the location I was headed towards was the ability to sit beside a source of heat and cook some food, whilst drinking a lot of tea and thinking deeply about a friend, who had sent news of a miscarriage. These little vignettes of life and death are a story as old as time itself; even though I was far away, I somehow felt very close to her too, perhaps the act of sitting by a fire bringing her more fully into my mind, a deeper form of meditation than if I was sat in front of a television, for example.

Ancient ways of life like this do something to us. They make us more human, whilst simultaneously making us closer to the nature, to the land and plants and animals all around. I often consider this, how more of us could use time out in the woods or hills, along the coasts, deep in the deserts, or sitting by flowing water, for example. We are too divorced from what is real, and it is beginning to seriously impact our species in a feedback loop of poisonous negativity and hatred.

To struggle lighting a fire, then to sit beside it, thinking about a good friend going through a difficult time is real, raw, and oh-so human.

*Sometimes, I need to remind myself of this, however, and apply it to all aspects of life, to never accept failure as an end result. When your brain works in a certain way, and we are bombarded with tales of overnight success and instant results, it can be all too easy to forget that this is a long journey.

The Bone of the Earth

After days of few photographs and being unable to walk too far, I made up for it on the 14th of November, 2010.

I gathered even more fuel, but I also took the time to walk, albeit a lot slower than I would have liked. When I had been sick, I had looked back over the photographs I had taken and realised I had snapped too few of the rocks and bones of the earth. I tried to make up for this, along with capturing other shots, to demonstrate how quickly the season was changing, the views through the trees barely obstructed by leaves, those bones appearing, gaunt, white and lichen-clad.

I also snapped photos after dark, which was getting earlier and earlier every day. The sun was lower too, far lower, even at midday. The angle of light changed everything and made me want to hibernate, as did the increasingly low level of snow on the mountains. I wondered how long before it started to snow where I was—it certainly felt like things were getting colder, day by day.

That morning, as a reward for being soaked through processing firewood the day before, the fire was still going. Small things like this meant a lot out in the woods, as did capturing the reflection of both the sun and moon out across the sea loch. There’s something deliciously ethereal about moonlight, it feels secret and a little sacred, especially when there is water to reflect these mysteries and trees to cast shadow.

I ended my journal entry from this day with the following:

And today was amazing—blue, blue skies, warmth from the sun and magical colour everywhere. I’m guessing tonight will be a cold one though—hope it freezes, then I can get some more frost pics.

Journal Two. 14th of November, 2010

A Sugaring of Frost

It was indeed a cold, cold night but, as a bonus, the fire was still glowing when I got up, and I successfully and quickly fanned it back to life.

Journal Two. 15th November 2010.

At this time of the year, if I don’t have access to a fireplace or stove, or I’m not out in the woods and able to have a fire, I find I miss the ritual, the crackle, the warmth, the scent, and simply staring into the flames, thinking. To sit in front of a fire is a joy humankind has been in possession of for thousands of years. Try sitting in front of a radiator, instead, and I’m sure you’ll agree, it’s not quite the same thing.

(Fortunately, currently living in the Alps means most of the houses here still have functioning stoves, a necessity, rather than a luxury. If your heating system fails in this part of the world, you can be in trouble, quickly: a stove is not just wise, it is essential.)

Fire is something that connects us to our ancestors, a thread stretching back generation after generation for who knows how long? Today, predominantly western, ‘civilised’, children are perhaps the first or second generation to miss this magical experience, this deep connection. To be removed from, and unused to, fire is not necessarily a positive thing. True, it is better for both the environment and our own lungs not to have a city full of smoke-belching chimneys, but fire is something I believe we should all understand and all know how to use.

After all, to learn to coax a fire from natural materials is one of the closest ways most of us can come to real magic. The need- or force-fire of Samhain is a powerful example of this.

When I got out of my shelter that morning, there was frost everywhere, including on the finished patches of thatching, which is always an excellent sign of how well you’ve insulated a shelter. No frost means poor insulation, as it melts from the heat inside escaping outward.

I walked around, taking photographs of seemingly sugar-dipped leaves, or silvered sphagnum, looking for all the world like a miniature boreal forest, spruce and pine boughs covered in snow.

This heavy frost killed off all the local fungi and, after this point, there were no mushrooms for me to forage.

The 15th was a blue sky day, punctuated by sudden clouds and swiftly departing showers. I processed all the logs I had collected the day before, making a neat stack to photograph, before moving the whole thing and restacking in my shelter.

On one of the photographs of the logs, you can see my washing line, with the pegs I had made still attached, to stop me walking into it.

I still tired easily, but at least my health was returning and I was so very grateful for this. Too often, good health is taken for granted. It is easy to forget how well you have felt when you are sick, and I try very hard not to simply go from day to day without acknowledging those days where I feel strong, fit, and healthy. It was at this point in my woodland experience where I realised this was a sensible thing to do—and I’ve tried to keep this in mind, ever since.

Sometimes, having a habit stick takes time, but it is worth it—the key is to keep on going, even if you fall out of the routine, mentally beating yourself up for not doing a thing (or doing it) doesn’t really help. Just continue (not start again, you have already started—returning to a habit which has lapsed is a continuation—try that, you might find such a simple switch in language helps your mental state).

Also on this day, I continued with making handcrafted Christmas presents, discovering how the rocks I had been using in the fire had altered, thanks to the heat, and were now easier to carve. My journal records the evolving list of gifts I was making, a list which kept altering as I discovered other materials, thought of better ideas.

The Path

My journal from the 16th of November, 2010, records nothing of what I actually did that day. I remember calling my sister, as it was (and is) her birthday. I also recall taking the photographs of the woodpecker, drumming and seeking grubs above my head, moving from branch to branch of my sheltering oak.

When I see greater spotted woodpeckers, I always admire their striking colours. People always comment on this, the black, white and red, like an old newspaper, but they rarely mention the patterns and barring on their wings. I find the geometric shapes remind me of First Nations’ beadwork, as though the woodpecker one day decided to stitch beads to itself, accenting them with a flash of red. None of these photographs are the best—they are taken through the haze of smoke from my fire, but they serve as illustrations.

After dark, the owls continued to sit on the same branch the woodpecker had searched. I would hear them scrabbling and scratching above me, hooting, screeching and hissing. I often wondered if they had always sat there, long before an upstart human built a home beneath, or whether they had decided to use the heat from the fire, fluff their feathers in the updraft, as the robin, wren, long-tailed tits and others did, enjoying a smoke bath. Either way, it made me feel welcome.

I remember working on my Christmas presents, tired from all the fuel processing. I also scribbled several pages in my Moleskine, mostly ideas for the novel I was working on at the time. I also pondered my future and touched once again on my past. I was missing some people more than I had anticipated, and perhaps not missing others as much as I thought I would.

Life in the woods was reminding me of everything I loved and missed about humanity, but it was also reminding me of all the things I was glad to have left behind. I could be myself out there, thinking, planning, and writing, with no one to tut or frown. I do not like being told what to do, never have, and never will.

The path I am currently walking, fourteen years later, was initially laid down and plotted during those months of 2010. I have occasionally strayed, sometimes for years, making errors which have taken me on a detour, but overall, I am still walking that same route.

Re-reading my journals, looking through the pictures, reminds me of the state of mind I achieve when I am alone in the woods; by reading, I can come close to the same feeling, which helps banish doubts, remove any questions I cannot currently answer and generally makes me feel more connected to what it means to truly be me.

I recommend everyone take themselves off at some point, and ask themselves—who am I? Who should I be? You do not have to be quite as extreme as months alone in the woods, necessarily, but time alone—or alone from those you know and who know you—is a good thing.

It is best that we do not follow the road someone else thrusts us upon. Instead, go cross-country, break away, unfettered and barefoot, follow a scent, a stream, return to a place you love, share your journey with another, discover new things, and find your own way.

It is your path, and only yours. How you walk it is all that matters.

What About You?

Do you follow a path you laid out years ago, after long and deep thought? If you keep a journal or notebook, how does it make you feel when you reread your words? Do you try and make time for nature? And do you appreciate all those times you fail, or does it simply annoy you?!

Finally

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To read the introduction to my autumnal—and by this point, colder and colder—2010 adventure, click here.

To go back to Week Eight, 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.

Many thanks for reading,

Alex