It is late November, and snow lies deep across much of Britain. Winter has set in hard with record low temperatures. The weather has brought the usual chaos to the roads but, once it settles, the hills and wild places should be superb for winter backpacking. For me this snow has brought a feeling of excitement and desire that never comes with grey skies and rain, the norm on too many winter days. I have visions of climbing pristine white slopes with a perfect mountain world spread out all around to camp beneath a star-filled sky with a crisp frost sharpening the senses and making every sound ring. I relish the prospect of lying in my warm sleeping bag with a mug of hot chocolate, watching the snow drifting gently across the landscape. Winter camping can be a joy, and when the wind picks up and rattles the tent, sending swirling snow into every crevice, I love the feeling of being secure inside while listening to the storm thrashing the land.
Before snow closed the Lowlands there was already snow in the hills and I had made two overnight trips into the frozen mountains. Both brought the pleasures of winter backpacking, but also the pains. The first trip was to a favourite spot of mine, the great cliff-ringed bowl at the head of Loch Avon, arguably the finest corrie in the Cairngorms. The forecast was for clearing weather but the hills were shrouded in dense cloud and drizzle when I set off. The wet summer and autumn and recent heavy rain meant the lower ground was saturated and the streams full. I climbed up the Fiacaill a’Choire Chais into the wet mist, crossed below the invisible summit of Stob Coire an t-Sneachda and descended into boggy Coire Domhain from where a badly eroded stony path led steeply down to the corrie and long Loch Avon (this path has since been improved).
As I dropped out of the cloud the loch appeared, grey and windswept, while whitewater streams roared down the hillsides. The floor of the corrie was sodden and I had to pitch on damp ground, choosing a spot that didn’t squelch too much under my boots. I was soon inside the tent in my sleeping bag with a hot drink wondering what had happened to the drier, clearer weather.
During the early part of the night gusts of wind shook the tent and rain rattled on the nylon. Awake before dawn I noticed whiteness around the edge of the porch, a light dusting of snow. The temperature was below freezing and there was ice on my water bottles. Looking out I could see stars. Daylight came with a bright sky, hazy sunshine and dappled clouds. The mountains were spattered with snow, stark and dramatic, the tent was frozen to the ground.
Next day, and back up on the Cairngorm plateau, the sky was blue and I could see far out to the west. The fine weather didn’t last long though and by the time I reached the summit of Cairn Gorm the clouds had rolled back in and all I could see was the weather station, plastered with frost and snow. The rain returned as I descended to the car. I didn’t mind. The glorious morning had made the trip worthwhile.
My second trip was to Creag Meagaidh and another favourite spot, Coire Ardair with its little lochan nestling under huge jagged cliffs. Again the forecast suggested fine, cold weather. Again it was only partly correct. I camped beside cold, dark Lochan a’Choire with the rock walls, shattered pinnacles and stony gullies rising above me into grey clouds. There was only a smattering of old snow on the corrie floor but, not far above, the slanting slabs were white. Venturing into one of the wide stony gullies I could see long icefalls spreading over the cliffs high above.
During the night there were flurries of snow and when I woke the ground was frosty and crunched underfoot. Clouds still hung over the summits and a chill wind blew. Not wanting to move camp higher in these conditions – especially as the tent was a previously untried test model – I made a round trip to Creag Meagaidh, a real winter excursion requiring ice axe and crampons. I kicked steps up the crusty snow filling the wide steep cleft leading up to the notch called The Window. Above this the snow was thinner and icier so I used crampons for security on the slope up to the huge gently tilted plateau of Creag Meagaidh. I was in the cloud now and found it hard at times to distinguish between the air and the ground. Both were white and hazy with only ripples in the snow and the occasional rock giving me anything to focus on. Compass bearings led me to the summit and a sharp cold wind. Chilly though it was I welcomed this wind as it sometimes tore apart the whirling clouds to give brief views of the surrounding peaks and down to dark glens. A silver sun pulsated weakly through the clouds. The light and the clouds changed every second and the world felt very unstable. Only the snow-encrusted rocks of the summit cairn seemed solid and fixed.
Following my steps back across the plateau I dropped below the cloud and returned to camp. My little grey tent looked tiny and fragile against the immensity of the landscape, but it had kept off the wind and snow and now provided a warm shelter for a hot drink before I packed and descended out of the mountains.
As with many winter trips there were only short periods of clear weather on these ventures and the tops were often in cloud. However, one of the delights of winter backpacking is being out there in the wilds during times of magical light, clearing skies and frosty sunshine, even if these are brief. This is very much the time of year to welcome any sunshine, any abatement of the wind, any clearance of the clouds. It’s also a time to enjoy the comforts of camp.
In summer I resent spending much time in the tent, impatient to be outside and walking. In winter I’m happy to lie inside, warm and snug, listening to the wind, watching the snow fall, staring out at the ice-bound landscape. I don’t close the tent unless the weather is really stormy, unlike in summer when midges often force me to zip myself in, and so don’t lose my contact with the outdoors. When storms do mean closing the doors then I’m happy to lie and read a book and make endless brews and mugs of soup. Even in bad weather winter backpacking can be fun.
The Cairngorms in winter
Combine the largest area of high ground above 800 metres in Britain with the highest snowfall and the coldest and stormiest weather and you have the Cairngorms in winter, a challenging and spectacular mountain landscape. Snow falls on over 100 days a year on the summits and winds over 160kph (100 mph) occur every winter. The highest wind speed in Britain, a frightening 278kph (173 mph), was recorded by the weather station on the summit of Cairn Gorm in March, 1986. Blizzards and white-out conditions are not unusual.
At the same time the Cairngorms in winter are wonderful and magical, a real mountain wilderness. When the snow lies deep the paths, cairns and other human artefacts disappear. The world is renewed and the mountains are pristine again. The vast areas of high ground can hold the snow for months at a time, a frozen glorious winter landscape. Indeed, wintry conditions can last a long time in the Cairngorms with the first snow arriving in October and big snowfields lasting through May. The snow isn’t guaranteed though and can thaw at any time, leaving the hills wet, grey and chilly. Sometimes freezing temperatures arrive when there’s no snow and the land is covered with hoar frost and rime ice, creating a ghostly unreal landscape of sparkling rocks and white-sheathed grasses. Tumbling streams flash freeze into bubbles and corrie lochs become sheets of cracked ice. When the land is frozen hard any snow that falls lasts well, bonding to the cold beneath. However if the temperature rises, even a little, rain may fall, chilling bare skin and creating a hazardous coating of thin ice on rocks as it freezes.
Snow and ice change the landscape not just once but many times. Every day in the winter Cairngorms conditions can be different. Snow that falls on windless days forms a gentle blanket over the land, smoothing out ridges and hollows. More commonly snow comes on strong winds that blow it into great drifts and furrow the surface into ridges. Where there are steep slopes or cliffs the snow can be blown into great cornices that curl over the drops below; beautiful to look at but hazardous for walkers. More wind moves the snow again, packing it down in hollows, scouring exposed areas down to bare ice, sculpting it round rocks and boulders. The sun, weak though it is in winter, can thaw the surface of the snow, only for it to freeze hard overnight. A winter walk up here can involve crossing hard-packed icy snow where crampons are needed, sinking into deep soft drifts, and skidding across patches of bare ice (crampons again). The effort needed can be great, but then so are the rewards.
The Arctic-like feel of the Cairngorms in winter is enhanced by the light, which is that of a northern landscape. The low sun and short hours of daylight - barely more than six hours around the solstice - make for deep shadows and emphasise the shape of the hills. Even at noon on clear days the slanting sunlight gives depth and form to the mountains. Old snow, often refrozen after the surface has thawed, glimmers in the sunlight, dazzling the eyes. The mountains look magnificent, real snowy giants shining in the bright light.
Wildlife is rare in this harsh frozen land. Only the hardiest creatures can survive on the high ground. Of these some turn white to camouflage themselves against the golden eagles that may be seen sailing high above in search of prey, a wonderful sight. Ptarmigan stay close to the ground, scuttling over the snow or flying low when disturbed. Often they keep still until you are almost on top of them, relying on their white plumage to hide them. White-coated mountain hares are more wary and will dash away long before you are near, their presence betrayed by their movement. On summits small black and white snow buntings peck around, happy to take scraps that fall from walkers’ snacks. The red deer often seen high in the hills in summer are gone in winter, sheltering in the glens where there is still food. In the Northern Cairngorms you may see the semi-wild reindeer from the Cairngorm Reindeer Centre down in Glenmore. These arctic animals roam freely across the hills and can scrape through snow to the moss below. They are at home in the winter landscape.
The Cairngorms are made up of a series of high plateaux split by deep passes and glens and bitten into by deep cliff-rimmed corries. The plateaux consist of rolling tundra-like terrain, stony and featureless. Under snow there is a feeling of the Arctic as the white landscape rolls away to the far horizon. Distances can be hard to judge even in sunlight. In mist and snowstorms navigation can be very difficult. The cliffs and steep, avalanche-prone slopes ringing the plateaux mean that good route-finding is essential for safety.
Each plateau is different, but they share the same characteristics that make them instantly identifiable as part of the Cairngorms. Let’s take a trip over the Cairngorm Plateau itself, which stretches from Cairn Gorm to Ben Macdui and includes the subsidiary tops of Stob Coire an t-Sneachda and Cairn Lochan. This is my favourite winter trip, which I’ve done many times, sometimes on skis, sometimes on crampons. It takes the walker right into the heart of the Cairngorms and there are many possible variations.
Whatever the route it always starts with a steep climb up onto the Plateau, which is rimmed by big corries and long ridges, some broad and stony, some narrow and rocky. As height is gained the views below stretch out across the dark swathes of Glenmore and Rothiemurchus Forests surrounding the waters of big Loch Morlich, which may be a shining patch of brightness when ice-covered or a light-absorbing black hole when not frozen. Beyond the forest and the loch the distant tiny buildings of Aviemore can be seen with the rolling hills of the Monadh Liath on the horizon. Already the world is expanding and there is a feeling of leaving the mundane flatlands far behind. Then a final pull up stony slopes and the Plateau is reached. The world now explodes and is suddenly vast. Snowy hills rush away in every direction. This moment is always magical, always astounding. Initially the view is overwhelming and confusing in its complexity. Pause and absorb the scene to make sense of this immense mountain landscape.
Crossing the Cairngorm Plateau keeps you high above the world. Once away from the rim the lowlands vanish. All that exists is a snowy wilderness. Venture onto the edges - beware of cornices! Now look down the ice and snow clad cliffs to frozen lochans far below. Across the Lairig Ghru pass rise Braeriach, Sgor an Lochain Uaine and Cairn Toul, a magnificent trio of peaks. Between them the great slash of the Lairig Ghru can be sensed. Ben Macdui, oddly, is the least distinctive peak in view, just a big rounded hump in the distance. Slowly it comes closer and an awareness grows that you are now far from roads and buildings and fully committed to a big mountain adventure.
Eventually the last slopes lead up to the summit cairn, a huge mound of stones with a trig point on top. When the snow lies really deep even the latter may be buried. Here on the summit of the Cairngorms it feels like the top of the world, a world of nothing but mountains and snow. Wander away from the cairn towards Cairn Toul until you can see the great east face of that mountain dropping precipitately into the Lairig Ghru, through which snakes the tiny dark line of the infant River Dee. Turning south the edge of Ben Macdui’s summit dome can be followed round to a view down the Lairig Ghru past the gateway sentinels of Bod an Deamhain and Carn a’Mhaim and out over great snowfields to the rippling peaks of Beinn a’Ghlo.
Ben Macdui is only half way though. Now there is the return over the Plateau, unless you are camping out overnight (and nothing beats a night high in the winter Cairngorms with a vast starry sky above and pale mountains all around). Here the route can be varied, perhaps along the edge of the Lairig Ghru and over the shoulder of Cairn Lochan with tremendous views of Braeriach and then the cliffs of Coire Lochain, or else round the head of the great trench holding the long twisting waters of cliff-hemmed Loch Avon. Either way it’s a long return but a wonderful one. The Cairngorms in winter are always inspiring.
During the early months of 2013 film maker Terry Abraham and I made a film in the Northern Cairngorms. This was Terry’s first full-length feature and the first time I’d been the presenter of one, my previous filming experience limited to very short snippets in various TV programmes, so this was a big challenge for both of us.
When Terry approached me to appear in the film he’d never been to the area at any time of year either. An initial week alone on the high tops in January shooting landscape scenes soon showed him just what a difficult challenge he’d undertaken. Filming is slow patient work with much standing round, not easy when the wind is bitter and the temperature below freezing. Camera equipment, especially batteries, doesn’t deal well with the cold either and Terry had to take great care to keep it all working. While making the film we had to deal with blizzards and white-outs, once retreating from the Lairig Ghru in the face of a ferocious storm. I was impressed that Terry kept on filming despite the wind constantly covering his lens with snow and threatening to blow him and his tripod over.
Progress is slow when filming as sections are repeated from different angles and words said again and again. Often I walked more slowly than usual so I didn’t sound too out of breath. I reckon it took at least twice as long to cover the same distance as it would have done normally. Given the short hours of daylight this restricted what we could do and where we could go. Our longest day, across the Cairngorm Plateau to Ben Macdui, did end with a descent in the dark during which we lost each other for a while as I was on skis and Terry on crampons so we took different routes.
An answer to the short days was to camp out of course and we did this often, sometimes high up, sometimes in the glens. One camp stood out, a magnificent night on the summit of Mullach Clach a’Bhlair above Glen Feshie when there was nowhere else in the world I’d rather have been. Ironically the stormiest camp, which resulted in bent tent poles for both of us, was down in the forest on what we thought was a sheltered site. There is no footage of that night!
Snow shelters
Sleeping in the snow seems unusual but it is actually the warmest and safest way to spend nights out in the winter mountains. Snow has amazing insulation properties and snow shelters are warm, windproof and quiet. They don’t blow down, keep you awake by rattling in the wind or snow inside as frozen condensation falls from the roof. They are much roomier than backpacking tents too as you can dig out sleeping platforms and kitchen shelves and have room to sit up and spread your gear out.
I first discovered snow shelters on a winter mountaineering course. Setting out with overnight gear, but no tent, we found a steep snow bank high on the slopes of Aonach Beag, and dug into it to make a roomy cave. Once inside we spread out our bedding, set up the stove and made dinner. It all felt very civilised, and after spending a comfortable night inside I was hooked. The weather was fine though so I didn’t gain any particular sense of security. I was just impressed by the space.
Later that same year, on a ski tour in the Cairngorms, I was to learn the big advantage of snow shelters when I woke after a night in another snow cave. Pushing my way through the surprising amount of snow that had built up against the rucksack that was acting as a door, I climbed out into a blizzard. Visibility was almost nil; the ground and sky a swirling mass of snow. The wind almost blew me off my feet and I soon retreated to the calm and quiet of the snow cave. The storm lasted all day and, apart from one short venture out when we almost failed to find the cave again (this being before the days of GPS) even though we didn’t leave the corrie it was in, we spent the day in the snow cave reading, making hot drinks and relaxing. I knew from experience that being in a tent in that storm would have been unpleasant to say the least. We would probably have packed up and descended to calmer conditions.
Years later when I worked as a ski tour leader, mostly in Norway, I taught shelter building and realised that many people thought sleeping in the snow was a very strange thing to do. For some it was quite challenging. We built the shelters near to huts so people could choose to sleep in them or not and could retreat to the hut if they didn’t like it. Not everyone chose to sleep in a snow shelter. However, I think everyone realised just how useful the skill of building a shelter could be in an emergency.
On all the tours I led this occurred just once, high in arctic Norway, when avalanche danger during a big storm made it too risky to descend to the hut that was our intended overnight destination. We were carrying two small tents as some of the huts were quite small but these could only squeeze in six of our group of ten so we built a snow dome for the rest of us by heaping up a huge pile of snow and then hollowing it out. That night the temperature fell to -25°C as the storm faded away and the sky cleared and we emerged to sunshine and an easy ski down to the hut for breakfast.
My enthusiasm for snow shelters was rekindled on a trip to Yellowstone National Park with Ed Huesers, inventor of the Ice Box igloo building tool. With this ingenious device igloos can be built from any type of snow including powder. On our five day trip we built two igloos, which we used as bases for exploring the surrounding wilderness. Night temperatures were all below -20°C yet the coldest temperature in an igloo was -7°C. On the coldest night we stood outside as light snow fell and the moon rose, listening to the crack of branches snapping as the sap in them froze. The temperature was below -30°C. Yet whenever we felt chilly we could nip back in the igloo and warm up. On further trips I’ve explored Yellowstone again and the Wind River Range to its south, using igloos throughout. On none of these trips did we even carry a tent, just the Ice Box and snow shovels.
Now I always look forward to the first igloo, the first snow shelter in which I might live comfortably even with a blizzard raging outside. I love igloos. I love building my own shelter and knowing that I can be snug and safe inside regardless of the weather. No need to look for a sheltered site or to get up in the dark to shovel snow off the tent. All that’s needed is enough snow and, even when there’s not all that much around, deep drifts can be found that are suitable.
In Scotland I’ve built igloos on the Moine Mhor in the Cairngorms with members of the Inverness Backcountry Snowsports Club. One January we constructed two igloos on the slopes of Carn Ban Mor. The sun was out and the weather, though cold and with a brisk wind, was pleasant and we were hoping for a good long ski tour the next day. However, after a comfortable night, we woke to a white-out and a strong wind. Instead of swooping across the white expanse of the Moine Mhor we struggled to pack up our gear and then navigate to the edge of Glen Feshie. Only when we were part way down to the glen did we escape the blasting spindrift. Yet in the igloos we had been warm and comfortable. Tents would have been uncomfortable, if indeed they had stayed up.
On another trip one January, in a winter that was one of the most snow free on record, I set out with two others to build an igloo above Glen Affric. Initially we had to carry our skis as the snow was patchy and soft with too many tussocks and boulders poking through. The walking was difficult, not just because we were carrying skis as well as all our overnight gear, but also because we were constantly plunging through the snow into bogs and stumbling over hidden rocks while the heather tore at our gaiters. In the distance we could see a denser white streak, a thick ribbon of snow in a deep stream gully. We staggered across to it and were relieved to find it wide and solid enough to provide a good line for a ski ascent.
Above us the bank of snow grew steeper and cornices began to appear above the gully. We climbed a rib of snow onto the top of the bank and found it was deep enough for an igloo. It was a magnificent spot, half way up the hillside with views of cloudy, snowy mountains all around.
Building an igloo is not something to hurry, unless the weather is really stormy. In between the shovelling and snow block construction we stopped to make hot drinks and revel in the location and the wild surroundings. Night comes early at this time of year and it was a few hours after the sun set before we put in the final horizontal roof blocks and moved into our spacious home to cook dinner. Inside all was peaceful and calm. In an igloo there is no sound of the wind, no rattling of tent fabric, no showers of condensation. We slept well, waking to a cloudy day with poor visibility. We skied a little further up the mountain but turned once we reached the cloud level and skied back down. No one felt a need to reach a summit. The aim of the trip had been the igloo and that had already been a success.
I’d hoped that igloo would be the first of many that winter, but it was not to be. January’s snow melted and February and March were snow free. By the time it returned in late April it was too late for igloos (they don’t go well with hot sun!) though I did have the best ski tour of the season across the Cairngorm Plateau to Ben Macdui on May Day.
Every year when the first snow falls I’m excited at the thought of building igloos and the thrill of anticipation is sharp. There are many places in the Scottish hills I’d like to build igloos, some of them where I’d be wary of camping in winter unless the weather was very settled. I plan on snow camps as well, for those times when the snow isn’t deep enough for igloos or I want to move on each day – igloos take so long to build that you want to use them for more than one night.
Whilst building an igloo takes several hours and requires at least two people, simple snow shelters can be made quite quickly by one person. If there’s much snow on the hills I always carry a snow shovel and have occasionally dug a small slot in a bank for a lunch stop out of the wind. One day I’ll hollow one of these out a bit more and spend the night there.