A Fall In Time: Week Twelve

1st of December, 2010

Technically, this letter does not cover a week, being an account of my leave-taking and subsequent, somewhat unwelcome, adventure on my way to spend Christmas with my parents and four of my five sisters.

It was not expected and, at times, I was considerably more frightened than at any point in the preceding eleven weeks spent alone in the woods. I think, if you add other humans into the mix, especially those you love, fear of incident or accident becomes more real, at least for me. Alone, I knew I was well equipped and experienced; alone, I knew I was sensible and took few risks; and alone I was confident the woods and coast would look after me. Once back in civilisation, however, events became difficult to control…

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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 twelfth and final week of A Fall In Time.

The 1st of December, 2010.

One Final Day of Adventure

Colder and colder and colder still, I was up long before dawn on the first day of December, 2010, ready to pack up the last bits of my equipment, put away my bed for the first time in months, stuff my sleeping bag and knock as much of the soot and carbon off my cooking equipment as I could, before sliding it into my pack.

That morning, I had little water left, so I simply went outside and broke off some of the clearest icicles I had been photographing, feeling mildly guilty as I did so to destroy and subsequently drink such amazing natural art. In a strange way, it felt rather daring to be melting and boiling icicles for tea and porridge, but also quite fitting.

As I was about to leave, I took some final photos, using my phone, after I had packed away my camera—hence the poor quality—and said goodbye to Four Skull Shack to begin the slow walk to the railway station or, technically, more of a simple platform than a station.

At some point since I had last filled my waterbags, the burn (stream) had completely frozen over. I could hear water moving beneath, but the ice was thick. I hit it with my trust birch walking staff and could not make a dent, so, very carefully, I crossed the slippery surface. It not only held my weight and that of my pack, but didn’t creak or crack in the slightest.

As I was coming into sight of the railway, my path crossed with one of the deer I had shared the woodland with. I was relatively sure she was one I had often seen before but, on this morning, instead of her usual habit of barking and running off to melt into the trees, she simply stood calmly, watching. Perhaps my silhouette, with the large pack on my back, was different enough to keep her in one place, or perhaps she wanted me to know she had accepted my presence on her hill and was her way of saying goodbye. It was most likely she was simply preserving her energy reserves in the frigid temperatures, or maybe she was letting me know she was glad I was finally leaving. Whatever the reason, I walked within ten metres of her, before she finally left the path, casually sauntering up the hill to the left without a backwards glance.

I stood on the platform, moving around to keep warm and eating my last, slightly wizened apple, a treat I had been saving for just that moment. Earlier, before leaving the shelter, I had descended to some cellular signal and checked the rail website. I was worried to see so many lines closing, so many trains cancelled and, therefore, was delighted when I heard my own approach from the west.

The station I used, as I mentioned much earlier in this adventure, is a request stop. If you are on the train, you tell the guard, who passes on the message to the driver. If you are on the railway platform, you have to be prepared and wave madly, ensuring they see you and stop in time.

Since I was, relatively unsurprisingly, the only person to board from this remote station, and I had seen no one in a while, I was very conscious of all the other passengers staring at me, massive pack with a bow saw, axe, and fishing poles strapped to the sides, carved wooden staff in hand, and considerable beard complementing my general odour of campfire and wild places.

The train conductor was impressed I had been out in the area in such extremes and mentioned that the sea itself had begun to freeze, something incredibly rare in that corner of the world. He himself could not remember such low temperatures in the area. I was secretly pleased by this—not only to have survived such extremes, but to have actually enjoyed my spell of winter, just getting on with it, living day by day and being a part of the whole experience.

The train journey to Fort William ranks as one of the most beautiful in the world. It passes through extraordinary scenery, historical sites, and echoes of a past now long vanished. The ‘Harry Potter bridge’, as children always shouted, at Glenfinnan, gave wonderful views of the snow on the mountains. This is a journey I have made many times, yet it never ceases to inspire and amaze with its beauty. That morning, however, it was different—it was simply stunning.

We use the word awesome too liberally, for many things which are not really inspiring awe—that journey and the winter views did. It took and held the breath, it brought tears to my eyes, and it made other passengers fall silent for a time, simply content to stare and marvel.

The snow on the mountains, the frozen waterfalls, icicles tens of metres (50’ or more) long and well over a meter (3’) in diameter, the herds of deer covering the hillside—all these were truly awe inspiring, yet it was the areas where the fog had formed and subsequently frozen which were incredible, each blade of grass, every twig on a tree turned into a sparkling, diamond-encrusted wonder, a million million trapped tiny rainbows, glittering across a landscape filled with wonder. And the sea had indeed frozen, waves stopped in the act, super-chilled into solid sculptures of ice.

My camera packed away, the only images I captured are kept locked in my head, where they will hopefully be banked for as long as I shall live.

We arrived in Fort William on time. The first leg of the journey complete, I headed to get some food.

I was later to learn that the train I took that morning was the last one for some time. The line became blocked and the ice froze the points. Had I waited longer, there might have been a bus replacement but I also know that the road was also blocked at various points that winter. I was lucky.

Two different people in Fort William used the same phrase when talking to me, ‘You must be hardy, to be out in these conditions!’ I take this as a badge of honour, yet I also know I was just living as we are meant to. Is it hardy? Maybe, but maybe we are too soft in our normal lives?

Journal Three. 1st of December, 2010.

After the incredible views from the train, I was a bit disappointed by the bus ride to Inverness, the Great Glen drab and dull by comparison. The bus was also incredibly hot, I was not used to such overly-heated, dry air, and I felt deeply uncomfortable. As we neared Inverness, the snow started to fall once more and, with the sun having set long before I left the bus at 1600, more than seven hours since I had left my shelter, the temperatures were dropping, fast.

It had been some time since I had last been to Inverness and, usually even then, I would stay in the railway station, waiting to change trains. My Mum was waiting for me at the bus station and, after comments on the beard and smoked scent, we wandered off to find Dad, who was circling the block like a combustion engine buzzard.

Inverness had certainly changed since I had last visited it properly, when shops had been dying, empty, and boarded up. Now, there seemed to be a revitalised local economy, with surprisingly classy restaurants and bars dotted between the far more upmarket shops than I remembered. It regularly features as having the best quality of life for a Scottish city or town and also often ranks high on lists of the whole of the UK.

Strangely, despite all the people and my expectations, I realised I was not disconcerted by all the people, all those bustling Christmas shoppers and civilisation simply made me feel more Christmassy, made me look forward to finishing the gifts I had started in my shelter and, of course, that warm bath.

Another thing I found odd, at first, was how few people stared at me. Inverness is a communications hub for most of Scotland beyond the border region, and they were clearly used to seeing wild, bearded people, carrying huge packs and chunky staffs as, I suspect, they have been for hundreds of years.

We set off north and decided to pause for a coffee at Alness, not too far into the journey up to Caithness. A couple of hours later, this act proved to be a lucky one.

The further north we drove, the more snow there was laying on the ground. There was fog in the air and in the headlights it was clear this was already freezing. Then we hit Golspie and things began to get worse, compounded by the fact we witnessed an obviously injured barn owl, which brought all my woodland senses to the fore, the owls from when I was sick coming back to hoot and hiss in my mind, a warning! Care!

The car thermometer was showing -11°c (12F) and thicker and faster flurries of snow began drifting through the darkness, illuminated flakes, large and distracting.

In Brora, the car started skidding on the ice, the vehicle in front of us slowing down rapidly, making us lose momentum. I began to think how ironic it would be if we did have an accident, after all the concern of my friends, insisting I left my warm, safe shelter.

It was difficult to see very far in front at all. Few other cars seemed to be braving these conditions and our problems became compounded when we were forced to stop behind an oil tanker that had given up trying to plough its way forward. My Dad somehow managed to overtake this but getting back to the correct side of the road was a nightmare—the ruts of snow and ice made it almost impossible and, for a long way, we were left travelling on the wrong side of the road. Eventually, he did manage to pull the car across and we began to inch forward once more.

The lights of Helmsdale were a relief. Those of you who know that corner of the world will also know the A9 and how, after Helmsdale, it climbs up towards the infamous Berriedale Braes, a switchback road crossing a steep gorge, scene of many an accident.

We began to question whether we’d even be able to make it that far in the snow. The car was not a four wheel drive, nor did it have winter or all-season tires, let alone snow chains—something I had never personally witnessed before I became acquainted with the corner of the French Alps where I currently live. Here, there are road signs saying the road is off limits unless you have snow chains or winter tires. It is simply not possible otherwise. In the UK, such things are rarities.

I was becoming seriously worried, indeed frightened.

When I had been living out in the woods, even in the fiercest of storms or the coldest of nights, with the sole exception of when I contracted a virus whilst resupplying and fell ill, I had never been truly worried. I knew how to cope with weather, knew my level of skill and the ability of my clothing and equipment would see me safely through. Now, however, things felt different.

I suppose, as soon as you put the safety of someone else into the equation, you start to become more concerned, and that concern only kept growing. If we came to a stop out here, I knew I would be fine. I had the right clothing, but I was worried about my parents, who most certainly did not.

A blue light behind us heralded the arrival of a police 4x4. They pulled alongside to check we were okay, suggesting ways to try and get up the hill. I could tell this eased both Mum and, especially, Dad’s minds and Dad practically leapt out of the car when one of the policeman suggested he try and get the car to the top of the hill instead. He too, however, struggled and clutch began to burn. When he asked his colleague his opinion on whether we’d make it, he shook his head.

The police told us that, if we wanted to continue trying, not to worry, as they’d be around all night, patrolling that section of the road, but that his advice (offered calmly, sensibly, and without judgement—rural Scottish police officers are a different beast to those I was used to from the city) was to turn around and find accommodation in Helmsdale. It didn’t take us long to agree that this was the most sensible option and the policeman got the car turned around and we were soon gently coasting down the hill, giving the clutch a chance to cool.

During all this time, we had been in constant communication with my sisters who were safe and warm in Wick, and opinion was divided as to whether we should book ourselves somewhere to stay, or try and catch the last train of the day north. We decided on the latter—there was no guarantee that the car would make it over Berriedale the following day either, and it would be cheaper to catch the train, rather than after having paid for a night’s stay. As it happened, and unsurprisingly, the train was running late, and the sisters began to liaise with Scotrail to try and establish when it would arrive, so we wouldn’t have to wait out in the sub-zero temperatures too long.

After my Dad had parked the car, not easy in the thick and drifting snow, we located the railway station but it was bitterly cold, an icy wind picking up and covering the train tracks and blowing through and around any tiny fraction of cover. I began to wonder if the train would even make it.

We headed to the pub in the village below to warm up. Coffee was something I had missed and was exceptionally welcome, as I felt I needed something caffeinated to keep me alert to any dangers. Usually, I would have been in bed by that time, the oak fire burning and my down sleeping bag a haven of warmth and comfort. I was bemused by how many of the local voices were English and found the large TV showing football (soccer, for American readers!) all a little odd after months alone. Needless to say, here in the bar I did receive a few stares.

Later, we headed back to the railway station to await the arrival of the train. Our updates kept showing it was getting progressively later and later and the waiting room was not the warmest, simply a wooden shack with the glass pane in the window missing. I had become accomplished at rating the temperature and I estimated it was below -15°c (5F) and falling still. Even dressed as I was I was beginning to feel chilled and I knew my parents, in relatively thin and normal clothing, would be suffering much worse. They kept responding to my questions as to how they were feeling with ‘fine’, which did not inspire confidence.

Fine, as you probably know, is British for ‘I’m about to die.’

I made them stand up and move around, pacing, keep the blood flowing, pump the heart harder. Movement is crucial in such situations.

Those hours at Helmsdale railway station, with no heating and no lights, which had turned themselves off half an hour after when the train should have arrived, rank as the most concerning episode of the whole adventure. I was deeply worried about hypothermia in my parents and kept gently and, at times, non-too-gently, to try and bully them into moving around within the dubious shelter, moving constantly.

142 minutes late, the train arrived. Apparently, the brakes had failed due to the extreme cold and another engine had been added.

As soon as we were aboard, my parents began to nod off in the sudden warmth, the train heating seemingly cranked up as high as it would go, and I kept an eye on them the whole way home, watching their breathing, the movement in their bodies as they dozed. After this event, I grew determined to impress upon them the importance of wool and, especially, woollen socks…

We drew into a winter wonderland in Wick at around 0045, around nine hours after I had been picked up in Inverness and at least six hours later than we should have arrived.

Frozen beach, Reiss, Caithness, December 2010

After a pizza (my first in months and months), it was gone 0300 when I had my first shower in nearly three months. I have to admit, I was rather distracted by the presence of a large mirror, studying the changes wrought on my body during that time and seeing someone I did not really know; I had not seen myself naked in a mirror since mid September. I also stepped on a scale to check my weight.

I had lost no weight but actually added it, along with obvious changes to my muscles. Having supplies and eating far more calories per day than I had done in the city, whilst exercising daily, simply by living—collecting water and fuel, building a shelter, chopping and sawing and fishing and walking—meant that I was taut and toned. In places, I had muscle definition I’d never before possessed and I’d heartily recommend that, if you want to get into excellent shape, just head to the woods with enough supplies, an axe, a saw, and a plan to stay there for weeks on end.

Getting clean was a strange experience, all that warm water, simply running away down a drain, no need to warm another billy can to wash with. Although I scrubbed and scrubbed, the soot in my skin took weeks and weeks to disappear, as did the smell of the campfire, which seemed to have become welded to my hair and body. I was not sad about this, and found myself missing it when I eventually lost it.

We were lucky to have made it back from Inverness when we did. As with the train I had caught that morning, it turned out that the one we had caught was the last one to make it to Wick for ten days. The cold meant the engines simply failed to operate and the drifted snow and thick ice meant bus replacements were also cancelled. It was ten days before the thaw set in and we were able to retrieve the car, standing on the bridge nearby and watching the raging River Helmsdale carry thick flows of ice out to sea—it looked more like a spring melt river in Canada or Scandinavia than Scotland.

As I was reunited with my pack, which had been left in the car, I felt that this was the moment that first adventure was truly over. I still had a lot of unpacking to do, not just literally from my bag, to continue with my Christmas presents, but to process and consider all I had experienced, how it had made me feel different in ways I had never truly thought it would. I am still finding new things and thoughts about that time now, fourteen years later.

There is much I would still like to talk about in relation to this period of my life—how making such an outlandish and different choice meant that, ultimately, I found it increasingly difficult to relate to the Facebook statuses of friends from my previous work and they in turn, despite enjoying reading and hearing about my adventure, felt they couldn’t relate to it, or to me.

Those who travel often experience this. Those who take a different path have to then seek out others who understand those different paths exist in the first place. Sometimes, however, those people find us, too.

Which leads me back to that first day, back on the 14th of September, 2010, and the old man on that last train of that day:

The man asked me what I was doing and I gave him a brief synopsis of my rough plan, of why I was out there. He nodded to me, glanced outside, then back again, replying with words which have stayed with me ever since,

‘What you are doing is banking for the future.’

And here I am, fourteen years later, sharing that wealth.

What About You?

I have loved sharing these daily and weekly posts with you and I have delighted in your comments, replies, and thoughts. If you have any questions to ask, no matter what they are, whether you think they are too trivial, or too complicated, please go ahead and I will answer. It might take a while, but answer, I shall.

Finally

Now that I have finished this part of A Fall In Time, I will also be completing and sending off the book proposal which uses this adventure as a framing device—the practicalities of living out in the woods slowly morphing into something Other, something more philosophical and questioning, bird calls changing into recognised phrases and language, deer becoming individuals, each as different as we humans are, even their tracks beginning to demonstrate that unique status. Time out in nature, as a part of it, is time which can completely alter your life. It is all these things I seek to weave into that proposal.

It might sound a little arrogant or, perhaps, misguided, but I truly believe such a book could reach so many others, help them overcome our modern malaise and sense of despair at the world, help them relate to others in a different, deeper fashion, even as they relate to a tree they pass each day, or the local birds calling to one another and anyone else who might listen. We are a part of nature, and we should not be apart from it. These are lessons we could all do with learning, and then revisiting—myself included.

My sister,

Lydia Crow

, is working on a piece about that time back in 2010, her memories of my adventure, and I cannot wait to read it. I shall, of course, share that with you, as I shall further thoughts on that period of my life myself, how it changed me, the whys, the hows, the tiny details which made up a kaleidoscopic, constantly shifting, incredible whole. I am very much looking forward to working on these.

Don’t forget that special annual subscription offer I mentioned. I will be honest—I would love to have more paid subscribers, simply because it would allow me time to share more of my love of nature and how we can find strength through learning more about our place as a part of this world of ours. I think my words have value, and I am very grateful there are those who agree.

Finally, thank you so very much for reading, it has been a great pleasure to share this with you and hear your thoughts and answer your questions. It was a bit of an epic undertaking, posting on Notes every day for almost a quarter of a year, but I think it was worth it. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I have.