A Fall In Time: Week Three

29th of September to the 5th of October, 2010

Hello, it’s lovely to have you here.

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 or the collated entries for Week One or Week Two of A Fall In Time.

As the weeks turn to months, I shall keep an updated navigation section in the introductory post and deliberately keep this introduction short, so you can get straight into the adventure. Without further ado, here’s the third week of A Fall in Time.

Introduction: On Time

Time is a strange thing. Sometimes, it disappears in a blink, others, it is elongated, stretched out into something more malleable and odd. By the point I had been out in the woods for three weeks I felt as though I had both barely arrived and yet also been there forever.

Red deer stag track/spoor. I have many, many photos of tracks and trails, poops and markings…

I was fully a part of the environment at this point, noticing all the tiny details which make up the infinitesimal mosaic of life. Here, a track of a red deer stag, pausing to turn his head, twisting slightly, there the droppings of a pine marten, marking their territory on a raised tussock in the middle of a trail. The hoot of the male tawny owls, the kee-wick of the female, a conversation giving rise to the ‘too-wit, too-woo’ so many associate as an owl call. I noticed the small insects, the ants, spiders, and flies. I would hear a flutter of wings and be able to identify which small bird was behind me, capable of setting my clock by the arrival of the big mixed flocks of little birds, know which alarm call meant an avian predator, which meant something I could not see on the ground. If the wind was right, I could smell when one of the big stags passed along the trail to the west, their musky scent mixed with that of their urine and the boggy wallows they slathered themselves in, enticing the hinds and competing with the other stags for their attention. The woods began to echo with their roaring.

I felt at home and, during this third week, I began to craft one too.

Red deer wallow

Dreich

(Scots): dreary, wet, dark and unpleasant, often used to describe the weather.

I took no photos at all on this day, nor would I until the 1st of October.

September the 29th, 2010, was wet—very wet. In my journal, I recorded the line ‘dreich days are for writing’ and write I did, filling many pages of my moleskine:

A dreich morning. It started raining around midnight and has continued since; it slackens off occasionally, and then regains momentum. It doesn’t look as though I’ll be moving anywhere yet at this rate.

Journal One. 29th of September, 2010.

I was pleased I was getting my nose into the local weather, this felt like an important step. The previous day, I had been sure it would rain in the night but at one point it looked like it might clear and prove me wrong.

The wind had blown the rain from somewhere out in the Atlantic, bringing with it the scent of the ocean and a salt-laden clarity to the air beloved by coastal dwellers. Its work done, the wind died, leaving behind low clouds bumping against coast and crag, soaking all with the lifeblood of nature.

For the most part, I didn’t move. I stayed warm, dry and toasty in my hammock, listening to the rain falling amongst leaves and into the bay, drinking tea and writing.

Late in the day, the rain slackened enough to encourage me out of the hammock and across the glen, to explore the area I thought might work for my shelter.

And I was right. I found exactly what I wanted.

The Junk Lady

On the last day of September, 2010, I moved camp. I had originally considered splitting my pack to make it lighter, making two journeys instead of one but in the end I decided I could carry everything at once.

Weight is a big consideration when buying staple supplies for any adventure. A bag of rice or pasta here, some flour there, perhaps a few apples or even potatoes and, before you know it, your pack is twice the weight it was before. I have never been an ultralight walker, the gear I use is usually considerably heavier than the lightest option, simply because I know it works and it won’t fail on me. When you rely on something day in and day out, for weeks and weeks at a time, then that extra bit of weight is worth it for peace of mind.

I laboured onwards, looking for all the world like the junk lady from Labyrinth, especially since I strapped the driftwood I had collected to the outside of the pack.

The walk was not easy. It had not been easy the preceding day when I had discovered the site I had been seeking and, with an added heavy and unwieldy pack, it was positively dangerous—at times, I was ascending on my hands and knees—and I was very grateful for my sturdy staff.

The terrain was rugged, difficult, and forbidding. In other words, perfect.

No one was likely to find my secret home here.

I set up my camp—hammock and tarp strung between a new pair of oaks—then I went for a walk through the woods, to explore my new home and see who else lived there. I was also looking for a local patch of mobile phone signal, but failed. The trade-off—excellent site for a shelter, but no cell signal—was not a deal breaker, however, and I could not wait to get started on my home.

Temperate Rainforest = Rain

October 2010 began in the traditional Scottish fashion—with a constant, heavy downpour. On this day, I gathered fuel, bringing up a heavy load of driftwood from the beach below, and water, eight litres (2 US gallons) of it in my waterbags.

It was a very soggy, damp, and wet experience.

At that point, the only way I knew to access my new camp site, where I intended to build my shelter, was up a steep, rocky slope. Unfortunately, as I mentioned yesterday, with all the rain, this slope essentially turned into the bed of a stream, rocks falling, pools sucking at my boots, gravel and peat slippery and dangerous. I had to use my hands to help climb and, by the time I got back to camp, I was soaked.

I was, however, mostly warm, my layers of clothing woollen and still keeping me protected beneath a rain-stiffened layer of Ventile cotton. Sodden, but warm.

My feet, however, were cold. When I had bought the boots I wore, several years earlier, I had made the mistake of not waiting until the size above my normal foot size was in stock. As such, they were great with a single pair of socks, especially in the morning but, by later in the day, they felt tight. This meant I could not wriggle my toes and keep them as warm as I would like, and it was a mistake which could cause real problems. I was unable to wear layers of socks, and this was something I was worried about, with colder weather ahead.

I lit my stove when I got back to camp, made a cup of tea, and changed into dry clothes.

Whenever I left my camp, I would always prepare the small, collapsible honeystove for immediate lighting upon my return, ensuring there was enough split wood to keep it alight and warm me, should I need it—usually by warming water for tea, the fire I used would be too small to actually warm me through. This is a sensible precaution, one which is a good habit to be in, always think ahead, always plan for the worst.

My new camp was set on the lip of a bowl, ice-carved out of the rock, long ago. It was sheltered from the wind but a few steps to the ridge above would provide fantastic views. I could see the hill I had climbed to send my blog post photographs and receive any messages, and I could see all the way out to the Atlantic beyond the sea loch below. On that day, I remember thinking how it would be a perfectly delicious place to witness the sun setting—rain and clouds permitting, of course—and I looked forward to those moments, wondering how far the departing sun would move southwards in my time out there.

Full of huge oaks, the odd rowan, holly, birch, pine, hazel and alder, this area was a microcosm of the native west coast Scottish temperate rainforest, an environment which had once been widespread but now clung on in small pockets. Thankfully, there are those whose mission it is to protect this wonderful ecosystem and encourage it to grow once more. To say it is a special place is a vast understatement: it is remarkable.

As I warmed myself up, I began to sketch out and plan my shelter. I could see several promising locations, and one which looked perfect.

When the sun finally came out later, I went scouting for materials, looking in directions I had yet to explore, and not being disappointed.

I have already mentioned the rhododendrons, and how they had been cleared from the woodlands, allowing the native species a chance to grow. Here, instead of being burnt as in the other areas I had already walked, the cleared branches had been stacked in large, now seasoned piles. I assumed this was because no one would ever venture there and see them, as the location was well away from the beaten—or any—track. Definitely a good place to stay.

There were plenty of fallen trees too, of all sizes, which would be used for firewood and also as a solid frame for the shelter. I decided I would start construction the following day. Everything was soaked by the rain and it felt good to get a feel for the place, study the local nature, the trees, flowers, plants, fungi, birds, and insects. There were interesting tracks and droppings from a variety of mammals, herbivore, carnivore and omnivore, and I knew I would not be alone.

My journal from that day includes the following line:

…writing this makes me feel as though I am settling in for winter…

Journal One. 1st October, 2010.

Which, as it turns out, I was—winter was to arrive early that year, and it was to arrive hard.

Building a Home

October the 2nd, 2010, marked eighteen nights out in the woods, alone, living in three separate camps. It also marked the day I began to build my natural shelter.

Hammock and tarp are fantastic for low impact camping. I do not use rope for the hammock, preferring wider webbing, as it is kinder to the tree bark. I can rig the tarp in a variety of ways to keep the weather off me, I can also use the hammock on the ground, using the inbuilt mosquito netting to keep any biting things off me (the net is also small gauge enough that it stops midges too—often, people buy mosquito nets which are not designed for Scotland, then find themselves trapped with hundreds and thousands of little bloodsuckers…).

Hammocks do not require flat, non-boggy ground either which, in Scotland, can be difficult to locate. Both together are generally lighter than many tents and, crucially for me, they allow me to be immersed in nature—rather than zipping up the door and constantly wondering what that noise was, what I am missing beyond the material. In short, I would heartily recommend their use over a tent, if possible.

However, for colder weather and for staying in one place, nothing can beat a natural shelter. This is something ancient, something connecting us to the land in a way which modern materials simply cannot do. These days, in the world we read about every day, that which traditional and social media portrays as ‘developed’, there are very, very few of us who build a long-term home from natural materials, with our own hands.

The spot I had chosen for my shelter was ideal. It was sandwiched between two great chunks of rock, at the crest of a small ridge, so all rain drained quickly to either side. It was protected from the mainly westerly winds by one of the rocks and a backup array of twisted oaks, birch and rowan, each pushing upwards whilst also been driven away from that prevailing wind. Although there was evidence of deer using the spot to pass, there was another trail a little higher, which showed similar evidence. My guess was that the deer might initially try to come past me, but would soon learn I was there. In some parts of the world, building a home on a trail is not a good idea at all, in Scotland, in those woods, it was not a major problem. Sadly, there would be no bears lumbering into my camp.

I had built shelters before, from small, individual hooped kennels, two person wikiups, lean-tos, through to a shelter big enough for six people, arrayed around around a central fire.

It was this last design that I chose, altering it for long-term single occupancy, with a space for a fire and 360° protection from the elements. I knew these shelters were strong, and it would have to be, capable of surviving hurricane force winds, weeks of rain, snow, sub-zero temperatures and anything else that could be thrown at it. Whilst out there, I even felt two localised, (exceptionally) minor earthquakes.

Not only did I want the shelter to be strong, I also wanted it to be invisible. By using local, natural materials, I was able to camouflage it to such an extent that it simply appeared as part of the hillside, but that is getting ahead of myself.

As you can see from the photographs, on this day, I began clearing some of the ground, locating and carrying logs and branches, trying to work out the engineering and dimensions required.

There was a very useful fallen and lodged oak branch in front of the shelter and, here, I attached my gorillapod tripod to document the process (you can see this tripod in one of the photos). I began by plotting and testing the locations of the uprights, temporarily propping in order to enable the visualisation of the height and checking to see how far down I could dig. You can see the scale in some of the photos from my axe handle, which is 50cm long (20”).

With another person helping, I am sure this shelter could have been finished within a day, perhaps two but, as it was, with all the other tasks I needed to do—water and food to find and cook, fuel to gather and prepare, tools to sharpen—and careful negotiation of the rugged terrain, it took seven days until I moved in.

I was in no hurry. The work felt good, my journal recording the following line:

I feel strong, stronger than I have felt in a long time.

Journal One. 2nd of October, 2010.

This increase in strength and in toughness would only increase the longer I stayed out there. Living on a hillside, every step a minor workout, sourcing and carrying food, water, fuel, materials for the shelter—all of these things required no gym membership, yet made me feel remarkably good, all those years of being seated in an office, trapped behind a desk, fading away the longer I lived in the woods.

On Dreams, Part One

One thing I have been enjoying/marvelling/laughing at, which I haven’t shared before, are the many dreams I recorded in my journals during that time I spent living in the woods.

Having notebook and pen to hand at all times meant I was able to record things before they faded away and, sometimes, would fill several pages with details. Sometimes, I would realise why I was dreaming things at the time, others, I was mystified. Occasionally, now, looking back with fourteen more years of life and experience of understanding myself, I can see patterns and potentials, something which can only ever come with the act of writing and then later reading.

On the third of October, 2010, I recorded this (transcribed word for word, resisting the urge to edit!):

I’m awake—woke at about half seven after a night of strange dreams and tossing and turning. At one point I was in a hospital, picking up my daily medication. On the way out I had to pass through the mental health ward and go through a door marked A17. Later on in my dream my tablets were changed to strange, electronic devices that had to be boiled to be activated and the door number was altered to G17.

Liz was also in my dream—we climbed through a loft hatch in a waiting area in the hospital to search through lots of boxes, filled with all sorts of stuff, but I can’t remember what we were looking for. At one point men in uniform were chasing us with guns.

Another part of the dream was set in Amsterdam—where there was some sort of vast theme park that went over the North Sea. I was sat on a rollercoaster, about to head off when I made an excuse and got off.

Then I was attacked by a bunch of deformed homeless people before returning to hide under the rollercoaster with another girl who I think may have been Seirian’s friend.

At the other side of the fence were lots of mutant children—some blue, some with weird growths.

Then I was back in the hospital—there was a child who wanted to be a professional baseball player so I called Michael (who apparently had contacts in this field) and we got the child a place on a team.

Really weird dreams—perhaps I had too much cheese last night?!

Journal One, 3rd of October, 2010

Digging

October the 3rd, 2010, was another day of action, collecting masses of material for the shelter, replenishing and splitting firewood, then returning to building my home.

The main task on this day was ensuring I dug deep enough holes for the upright posts. The rocky ground made this task harder than I would have liked and I was forced to alter the position of two of them in order to avoid big rocks I simply could not move.

In natural shelter building, patience and flexibility are crucial.

I had no spade, no pick, no other modern tool to use in the digging, so I fashioned a digging stick, such as those used by hundreds of generations of hunter gatherers, all over the world.

I selected a good solid pole from green wood (mountain ash/rowan [Sorbus acuparia] for its strength and resilience) and carved one end into a rounded point (too a sharp point would simply snap), then the other end into a blunt chisel. Both ends were subsequently carefully hardened with fire.

This is an amazingly useful tool, one which needs to be used to be fully appreciated. I would use it to loosen soil, shape the sides, pry loose rocks and stones, and then scoop out the detritus with my hands.

As I dug, I could not help but wonder what archaeological imprint my shelter would leave behind. Having dug out Bronze age and Iron age post holes myself, I found it a strangely comforting line of thought. Looking to a past, which was my present, from a distant future, is a powerful method of connecting with the land, the nature, and self. What marks will we leave on the earth? What is left when we are gone back to the soil?

The top five centimetres (two inches) of the soil profile were peaty, the result of the slow decay of the sphagnum that covered the ground in that spot. Below this were layers and patches of sand and boulder clay, left from when the ice retreated. In one of the holes I found charred seeds and tiny flecks of charcoal. Had someone else camped there many, many years before me? Or had the burning been the result of a natural event, such as a lightning strike and forest fire?

These questions are fascinating ones, especially given the fact that I later discovered a narrow gorge a short distance away, which had been a cave at some point, and another, extremely well hidden, cave only a bowshot away from my camp. Weeks later, as the bracken died off and my eye became accustomed to the forest floor, I also found evidence of habitation and land use in several places in the woods and along the coast.

My hands were scrubbed with sphagnum moss and water, as best I could, but the dirt was ground in. As my skin saw use, it became decorated with activity, a memorial to the work and the accidents it was exposed to. Those soft hands, more used to a computer than an axe, were toughening.

I will talk more about the physics and technical side of building my home, such as using smaller rocks, sand, and soil for holding posts in, rather than bigger ones (those you can see were there temporarily, as I worked out positioning). I used no cordage in the construction, simply relying on physics and careful placing of materials, interlocking branches and weaving in thatching.

On Dreams, Part Two

After yesterday’s extra Note on dreams, I recorded this on the 4th of October, 2010 (again, resisting the urge to edit):

Had some more odd dreams; I can’t remember much of them but was at Houston airport when I bumped into Kay G, Christine G, Alison T, Susan B and someone else who I forget. We sat around catching up in the departure lounge and eating chocolate (I had 5 bars).

Another dream involved some strange Rocky Horror dance off in an old lock up garage, fairly sure Simon Landlord was there—some children were breakdancing too. Then there was a massive spiral going down and I was at the top and wanted to stay there.

Odd dreams.

Journal One, 4th of October, 2010.

Weirdly, when I read this in my journal, I remembered having the second dream featuring the spiral. I remember waking after and feeling as though I was about to fall, as though something was telling me to jump and something else to stay. Spirals and twists have long been a feature of my dream life, which is interesting in itself, especially when one has researched prehistoric rock art. The spiral is a powerful motif and it is not exactly surprising that it cropped up (more than once) in my dreams.

Framing Conversation

I’ve just had a conversation with a raven. I imitated their hroff-hroff and he or she kept replying, coming closer and closer. I’ve done this a lot with the little birds, but never a raven. Fun stuff.

Journal One. 4th of October 2010.

It is probably a good thing no one found me out there, or rumours would have flown regarding the crazed and bearded man with the axe, who conversed with the birds and was building a house/nest of sticks.

On this day, I continued building my shelter. The weather was windy, with occasional clouds appearing, then tearing away swiftly to the east, shredding as they left and leaving enough bursts of dappled sunlight to use my little solar charger. I guessed it would rain again that night.

I gathered more framing material, seasoned oak, much of it hard and greyed from years of weathering.

Once I deemed I had enough, I finished the superstructure of the shelter, cunningly weaving and locking each pole in place. Next would come a layer of the rhododendron I mentioned—not the best wood to use, as it is not strong, but there was plenty of it, already cut and seasoned and, ecologically, it made sense to use that, rather than take more of the native species.

Ideally, in a woodland like the one I was beginning to think of as home, hazel could be used but, thanks to the rhododendron and deer, there was very little remaining. Hazel coppices easily and any removed poles are replaced relatively quickly, unless there are too many deer to eat those young shoots.

I placed a number of big logs inside the shelter at this point, for making my bed and a bench. It is much easier to do this before the thatching is added. One should always be thinking two steps ahead in natural shelter building.

The two giant rocks to either side of the shelter would make thatching considerably quicker and easier, as well as providing thermal mass and significant strength and protection.

In moments of rest and that evening, I crafted another blog post, all about cooking and cookery in the woods, but I could not send it until the following day.

With the frame finished, the shelter began to take shape and I could visualise how it would look once complete. I was a little worried I had made it too tall, which would make thatching difficult, but decided to leave it and deal with any issues as they arose.

Crashing, and Roaring

The fifth of October, 2010, marked the point where I had now been living out in the woods for three weeks. At the time, I remember thinking of how this was so much longer than was possible using holiday allowance from my work. I also remember thinking how it was almost 50% more time than I had ever spent out in the woods in one go but, as I know now, those three weeks were really just the introduction to that particular adventure.

My journal records that the previous night had been the wildest so far, with a strong gale whipping in from the Atlantic, tearing, cracking, snapping all around me.

When the trees are still in leaf, they suffer more in the wind, each branch acting as mast and sail.

“Sleeping” in a hammock in such weather is always…entertaining. A particularly strong gust is felt through the trees and, at times, the hammock would concertina somewhat, as the trunks themselves flexed. Sitting on the ground in such a storm, it was possible to feel the earth also moving, the mat of shallow roots which held together the shallow cover above the rocks, rippling, bucking, and at times heaving.

I heard crashes and snaps from the trees around me, but it was not until a few days later that I discovered a large branch of oak had fallen precisely at the spot I had been collecting water when I had camped down by the shore. I thought about this a lot at the time—had I been hit by this branch, then it would probably have been game over, it is always essential to look up whenever you set a camp, or even pause for a cup of tea. Any loose, dead branches in the tree can easily slip and fall. That particular branch, however, was living and green, ripped from the oak by the ferocity of the wind. I remember thinking about how I would have at least died happy, doing something I loved, but also worrying about those left behind—and worrying about how they’d actually find me in the first place or whether I’d simply become a part of the soil.

The night before, during the storm, I had also heard crashes of a different nature, followed by the strange roaring of the male red deer. No matter how many times I hear that, it sends a shiver down my spine, somehow feeling ancient, timeless, and right. The rut had started in earnest and the woods were full of testosterone-pumped stags.

On the fifth, I finished the layer of rhododendron branches and made a start on the heather thatching which was to follow. I was lucky with how quickly the branch layer progressed, all those piles of seasoned wood made my job much easier, even if I had to carry it back to camp from all over the hillsides around me. The smaller branches were crucial to the next part of the process, the thatching, as they provided a means to weave the heather in and out, making it a sturdy and intertwined whole. Any bits which poked out would be woven back in as I continued building up the water and wind proofing.

I learnt much about gathering this heather on that day, making mistakes and learning from them. I had never used heather in this manner before, and I initially tried to cut it with my knife, but found it was so tough that the edge was quickly becoming blunt. Rather than keep stopping and reapplying the edge, I moved to my axe, but it proved difficult to swing and cut, and the head would sometimes bounce dangerously. After I nicked the blade of the axe, I stopped and rethought the process. Finally, I discovered it was much easier to use my hands—snapping off where possible, as low down as I could or, failing that, just tearing the heather up. This worked much better, but it was a good job my hands were toughening—heather is sharp and rather prickly.

By weaving the heather from the bottom upwards, both dead plants and live ones, with the top facing down, I could ensure a thick coverage, encouraging water to run downward. I was careful not to collect too much from one area (although Scotland is not lacking in heather!), moving around and making piles which I would then carry back in huge bundles in my poncho.

That evening, I was treated to a rich and spectacular sunset, which turned all golden.

I took rather a number of photos on this day, of the shelter building and of the trees around me. I also counted how many pages of my journal I had filled, not including the blog entries, reaching sixty-nine. Considering I had missed several days during the first week, I was pleased with this. At that point, I did not realise how many hundreds of other pages I would go on to fill, even going back through my notebooks and filling any tiny gaps, linking via a complicated system of page numbers and arrows. Although this infilling makes reading tricky, along with the photographs, those words provide a superb record of this adventure.

What about you?

Do you keep a journal? What do you record in those pages? And how? Do you write, or draw, or paint, or keep list after list? Or a mixture of all these? I find keeping a notebook is a powerful tool which should never be underestimated. In those pages you are building a route map to your own days and thoughts and considerations, but also, perhaps, a guide to what it means to be human. How do you feel, revisiting your earlier self (this can also work with photographs, of course, but perhaps not with quite the same vibrancy as a journal)?

Autumn

In 2010, October marked the point the leaves began to lose their green for Autumn/the fall. To read another perspective on this season, do please have a look at this post, generously shared by

Susie Mawhinney

of A Hill And I. There is a reality here, one wrapped in the poetry of nature, a poetry which is neither good nor evil, it just is. Susie’s words, observations, and thoughts are beautifully illustrated by her remarkable photographs, and I wholeheartedly recommend you have a look and subscribe. You will not be disappointed.

(And if any of you reading would like to take part in this project, Susie includes the link in her piece—and you’d be more than welcome!)

A hill and I - Autumn

Finally

To read the introduction to my own adventure, click here.

To go back to Week Two, 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