Posts tagged ‘MLD Trailstar’

April 19, 2015

Newtondale – backpacking the North York Moors

by backpackingbongos

Navigating the steep hairpin bends between Lockton and Levisham made my stomach flutter with a bit of excitement. It wasn’t the angle of the road but the fact that I thought that a new series of the League of Gentlemen was being filmed. I’m almost certain that I passed Tubbs and Edward standing by the side of the road decked out in grubby Barbour. Sadly it turned out that they were just supporters of the local hunt, which was being led by a man with the reddest face imaginable.

Levisham turned out to be a delightful village, basically a long village green backed by beautiful stone buildings with a pub at the far end. The only road in and out is the aforementioned country lane which plunges down to Levisham beck before climbing out the other side. I bet it gets cut off a lot in winter.

We took a track to the right of the pub after Reuben was saddled up and the car abandoned on the main street. We were passed by several vehicles heading into the village. Where they came from I have no idea as the track ends on rough open moor. The occupants of every single vehicle pointed at Reuben as they passed, perhaps they have never seen a Staffie wear a pair of overstuffed panniers before?

I had read somewhere that the Hole of Horcum is the Grand Canyon of Yorkshire. I have never visited the Grand Canyon before but I feel that there may have been a bit of exaggerating about the Yorkshire version. It is a very nice spot though and I was glad of the shelter it provided from the strong and cold wind. I would give it a few more extra points if the busy road to Whitby did not run along its eastern edge.

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A steep climb to the north led us up to the lip of Yorkshire’s Grand Canyon. There we were able to turn our backs on the hustle and bustle and head across the moors towards Newtondale.

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It was only my third visit to the North York Moors and I am beginning to work out the parts of it that I enjoy. The moors themselves are dreadfully dull, a flat monoculture of heather criss crossed by land rover tracks. Nothing really to invigorate the senses or lift the soul. The word sterile comes to mind. The contrast with the various dales however could not be starker. These are full of life, trees clinging to steep slopes, lush vegetation and a feeling that they are somehow wilder. Quite the opposite to many other upland areas I find.

I enjoyed the walk down into Newtondale immensely.

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The North York Moors Railway runs its way through the dale, although the trains had not started running this early in the spring. All was quiet with not a soul to be seen in this reasonably isolated valley.

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After following a forestry track north for a while we struck directly up steep slopes once past the plantation. I’m glad that the bracken was still brown and crunchy underfoot. In summer our chosen route would be simply impossible. You would also probably end up covered head to toe in ticks.

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A squelch across the flat moors and an idyllic spot was found next to the infant Blawath Beck. It was flat, dry and covered in springy moss. Although early I did not hesitate in getting the Trailstar up, I’m someone who does not pass by a good pitch. Reuben seemed happy with the chosen spot, as soon as his panniers were removed he was pulling his best breakdancing moves.

It was a pleasant evening chilling out with my kindle, listening to the first snipe of the year drumming somewhere overhead.

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Despite a night camped next to a stream there was zero condensation when I woke up. The sun had finally come out and the air was alive with the sound of bird song. It was tempting to have a lazy morning enjoying camp but I’m sure that wild camping in the North York Moors is probably frowned upon.

The pastures around Wardle Green contrast nicely with the austere moors and regimented conifer plantations. The old farm is surrounded by Scotts Pine and broadleaf trees. An oasis buzzing with life on an early spring morning.

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A bridleway and forestry track led us to high above Newtondale, a fine path leading along the edge of Killing Nab Scar. It’s probably one of the finest paths in the country as it winds its way high above the dale giving splendid views down into the valley. It was a shame that a haze had built up.

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A bench had been handily placed in which to enjoy a rest in the sun and drink in the view. All morning I had heard the buzz of trail bikes somewhere in the forest. All of a sudden half a dozen came tearing down the path I had just walked. I had to hold Reuben tight as they passed in front of the bench, inches from us. In my head I challenged them, waving my fist until they saw the error of their ways. In reality I just sat there glumly and nodded my head as they passed.

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A steep path took us down into the valley and then past Newtondale Halt. Climbing once more up the steep southern slopes there was a section that involved the use of steps built into a rock face.

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Although not marked on the map there is a narrow trod that continues on past Yewtree Scar and all the way to Skelton Tower. Another grand promenade, equaling the path earlier along Killing Nab Scar.

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Skelton Tower occupies a spot close to the steep drop into the valley, feeling much higher than 170 metres. It provided a place to sit out of the wind and rest before the final mile or so back to the car.

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I think I am going to have to make more of an effort to visit the North York Moors. They are a much quieter alternative to the Peak District with not much further to travel.

July 2, 2014

A night at the Grinah Stones

by backpackingbongos

The road along the Derwent reservoirs to its terminus at Kings Tree is shut on Saturdays and Sundays during the summer. This makes this exceptionally popular area much more pleasant, especially for the cyclists doing a circuit of the reservoirs. A regular shuttle bus can however drop walkers off at various points along the way when the road is shut. The current timetable is here, if anyone is thinking of a weekend trip.

I had the good fortune to be off work on a Thursday and Friday which just happened to correspond with a spell of excellent weather. It was late afternoon when we arrived at Kings Tree and there were only a handful of cars left parked on the verge. Soon after setting off towards Slippery Stones we passed the last person we would see until late the following morning. That’s one of the greatest benefits of backpacking, you can have the hills to yourself when everyone else has gone home. You can then go home when everyone else arrives.

The walk to the head of the Derwent is an easy one along a land rover track. The surrounding hillsides and trees were almost a luminous green, the type you only get for a couple of weeks at the beginning of summer. The bracken which was only just starting to unfurl and cloak the hillsides added to the myriad of greenery.

Reuben happily trotted alongside, the warmth at the end of the day preventing him from racing about. In the summer I have to stop frequently and fill his bowl with water as he does not always think to have a drink out of a stream or puddle. Planning ahead for waterless stretches is not his best attribute.

The river was easy to cross and water bottles were filled. Five litres are heavy but I wanted plenty for myself and the dog to last until late the following morning. It would be unlikely there would be any flowing higher up on the moor. Unfortunately it had the colour and consistency of Newcastle Brown Ale, even down to a nice frothy head. I was glad of my water filter.

Climbing towards the Barrow Stones, two huge planes (no idea what as I’m not an aviation or military buff) flew over the ridge in front and down below me into the Derwent valley. It was an impressive sight and over all too quickly. I’m assuming that it was to do with the D Day commemorations that weekend.

The evening light was now as perfect as it can get, blue skies and endless views north across the South Pennines. It was warm with no wind and the midges had yet to wake up. It was only the constant air traffic going to and from Manchester airport that was a reminder of being sandwiched between two major cities.

Years ago I had picked out a potential wild camping spot close to the Grinah Stones. I remembered it as being flat, well-drained and with impressive views. My memory must be failing me as when we got there it was lumpy, sloping and very boggy. The view was good though. I spent at least half an hour walking around searching for somewhere suitable for the Trailstar. Everywhere was either deep heather and bilberry or soaking wet bog. In the end I found somewhere that would just have to do. It was very squelchy underfoot and hard to get the pegs to hold sufficiently to stop the shelter from collapsing. Luckily I had brought a Tyvek groundsheet which was put under the Oooknest to stop the bog seeping through. It was pretty much dark when I had finished with there just being time to watch the sun as it dipped below the main bulk of Bleaklow.

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Soft bogs are comfortable to sleep on, although getting in and out of the Trailstar without getting my trousers wet was difficult. I ended up doing a manoeuvre that resembled a badly performed Cossack dance. This was performed at speed once the sun hit the shelter in the morning as the temperature suddenly shot up from comfortable to boiling. It was during this exit that I realised Reuben’s sleeping pad had been placed at the edge of a red ants nest. Despite his often sad looking face he is a stoical dog.

A nearby rock doubled up as a breakfast bar and I sat watching the distant rush hour traffic move silently across the Snake Pass. Coffee and noodles cooked with dark brown water. Reuben’s meaty pouch was served straight on the grass.

Packed up we headed down steep slopes on a narrow path to the head of Grinah Grain, where I found clear and cold running water. It was good to drink deeply without the metallic taste peaty water brings.

Surprisingly for a National Park the surrounding ground had been trashed by vehicles driving directly over the soft peat. This headed in the direction of a set of newly built grouse butts. It branches off from the well established track that serves the shooting cabins in Lower Small Clough. This is a hellish eyesore as it gouges its way through deep peat on the plateau. Why can’t grouse shooters walk?

An old ditch called Black Dike gave a handrail along the top of the moor which was left at the head of Linch Clough. Here a narrow trod was picked up and followed along the top as the ground dropped steeply away. Before the final descent back to the car a handy outcrop was in a good position for Reuben to do one of his mountain poses. The breeze wafting from the valley below was welcome before I joined the throngs at the snack kiosk at Fairholmes.

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May 2, 2014

Four nights alone in the magnificent Monadhliath pt3

by backpackingbongos

Day 4 – 23 kilometres with 590 metres ascent

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It was probably one of the worst nights that I have ever had for condensation. No wind, next to a stream and temperatures around freezing meant the walls were dripping by morning. That was in a huge drafty shelter with no door, my Scarp would have turned into a chilly sauna. Rather than start moving about and get everything wet with drips I decided to lay in my sleeping bag until the sun hit and dried everything out. Therefore it was once again gone 9.00am by the time I got up, no great hardship. I was spoilt by another alfresco breakfast, stretched out on a groundsheet in the warm sun. I wish that everyday could start like that.

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It was yet another morning where the blue sky looked unreal such was its brilliance.

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I followed the River Eskin for a while until it met a series of streams flowing down from Coire Seilich. Once again I used a series of grassy rides alongside the streams to guide me through the peat and heather on the climb to the north. Along one such stream I came across a large lurid green bog. A prod with my Pacerpole failed to reach solid ground. Not a spot to unwittingly stumble into, especially with no one to pull you out.

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The last couple of kilometres to the summit of Carn na Saobhaidhe was particularly unpleasant, height did little to tame the vegetation. Time was spent lurching and cursing under the hot sun, feeling like the summit was not getting any closer. Height however did increase the views and I could look east and see my route for later in the day.

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As I was approaching the summit I kept spotting a bright yellow object, this would move about and then disappear. It was difficult to work out what it was from a distance. As I eventually reached the summit plateau I could see it was a man in a high-vis tabard taking 360 degree photos on a large camera. For me there could only be one reason he would be there and I asked him if he was taking photos for a wind farm. He confirmed that he was. There then took place a short and polite conversation about wind farms. He said that he liked them for their beauty and they give him employment. I asked him a series of questions and he obliged by answering them.

As I am an Independent Advocate in my professional life I am aware that you need to talk to the right person if you want to influence change. I have my personal feelings about building wind farms in such places but it was not really appropriate to inflict them on this guy. At the end of the day he was a very small cog in a huge machine. I did think of various uses for his tripod though.

I decided to shuffle off and seek some shelter in which to have lunch. A mound of peat with grouse grit on top was the only such shelter on the exposed hill. I could also turn my back on the man in the fluorescent tabard and enjoy the view to the north. Ben Wyvis was clearly seen and I could just make out the Kessock bridge near Inverness. My phone even received a signal when I turned it on giving me the opportunity to call my wife.

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It really was rather pleasant in the sun and I had to resist the temptation to have a bit of a snooze. Back on my feet I once again passed the guy taking his panoramic photos, this time without his bright jacket. I had mentioned to him earlier that he was visible from miles away, perhaps he decided he did not want to draw attention to himself again. As I left the hill I registered my protest by ensuring that I walked into shot.

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I have heard about the track that leads to the summit of Carn na Saobhaidhe from the north. However nothing could have prepared me for just how destructive it was. A deep gash bulldozed through the soft peat, mounds piled up to ten feet high on either side. It really was spectacular in its hideousness. What made me chuckle however was that the chap doing the wind farm panoramas could not get his vehicle up it as it was full of snow. Once away from the monstrosity, the cairn on Carn Mhic Lamhair was a nice place to sit down again.

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Rough ground was crossed before dropping down to Allt Odhar and an easy track to the cottage at Dalbeg. This occupies a prime spot on the upper reaches of the River Findhorn. If the owners are reading this and fancy letting me stay please get in touch!

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This part of the Findhorn is simply lovely, an area where I enjoyed a wild camp during the 2011 TGO Challenge. A good track led me rapidly towards Coignafearn lodge, my pack feeling heavy and feet hot under the cloudless skies.

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I took a track that branched off up the Elrick burn and I was now at the lowest spot since the beginning of the trip, a lowly 450 metres. There was then a long steady climb ahead as I wanted to cross the watershed into the upper Dulnain before the end of the day. The track gave easy progress up the scenic glen, the river a lively companion to my left.

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I had planned to cross the burn at a footbridge but this was now in pieces beside the track, only steel girders remaining. I continued to the ford further upstream where boots and socks were removed. The ford was wide but reasonably smooth bottomed meaning it was not too painful on bare feet, the freezing water on the other hand initially made me gasp. With it reaching my knees there was no way to cross dry-shod whilst wearing boots.

The track soon started to zig zag up the hillside to the left, I climbed up this for a while before branching off on an unmarked track that just happened to be going in my direction above the stream. This contrasted hugely with the great scar I had witnessed near Carn na Saobhaidhe, with a little effort hill tracks don’t have to be huge monstrosities.

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When the track petered out it was a simple case of following grassy banks along the infant stream to its watershed, this being hidden under lingering snow banks. It was like a game of Russian roulette as I gingerly crossed them, aware of the sound of running water. Once again it was a glorious evening, the low sun casting warmth and shadow across the heather clad hillsides.

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I was tired when I finally reached the wooden bothy, so decided to spend the night inside rather than pitch the Trailstar. The hard wooden floor was unforgiving but it would enable an easy getaway the following morning.

Day 5 – 11 kilometres with 160 metres

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After spending nights on beds of moss and grassy river banks, a hard floor meant I did not sleep very well. I had a long drive ahead of me later that day so I was off and away before the sun cast away the shadows around the bothy. The track that would lead me directly back to Kingussie was at an easy gradient. I felt a bit sad as I had a final look over my shoulders into the wild heart of the Monadhliath before the trudge back to the car.

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The final stretch of tarmac between Pitmain Lodge and Kingussie was a bit of a bore, especially with a rumbling belly. I had eaten the last of my food for breakfast, supplies being rationed the previous day. The Coop was raided for carbohydrate and sugar based foods to set me on my way for the 400 mile drive south.

April 28, 2014

Four nights alone in the magnificent Monadhliath pt2

by backpackingbongos

Day 3 – 18.5 kilometres with 340 metres ascent

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I don’t think that it is very often that you have to drag yourself out of a shelter in the morning because it is too hot, especially whilst located at 830 metres in April.  After another sub-zero night that is exactly what I had to do.  OK so I had lazed around in my sleeping bag until gone 9.00am and the sun was getting high in the sky.  You have to relax and take things easy when exploring wild areas on your own.  So I dragged out a groundsheet to sit on whilst I drank coffee and ate noodles.  The air was particularly cool and fresh without the Trailstar to keep it at bay. I have to say that I felt rather smug and pleased with myself as I made another coffee and had a lie-down on a blanket of soft springy moss.

It did not take long to pack and I was soon on my way up the Northern flanks of Geal Charn.  This gave a great view of the way I had walked the day before, across big empty hills.

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With a high starting point I was at the summit cairn in no time at all.  Even with a late start I had it all to myself.  On such a clear day the views were superb.  When conditions are like this you realise just how small Scotland is.  I got the impression that I could see a fair chunk of it.  The western hills on the other side of the Great Glen looked large, clear and snowy.  The bulk of Ben Nevis looked close enough to touch, whilst the Cairngorms loomed close by.  However my eye kept on being drawn to the high brown plateau nearest to me.  This was the hidden heart of the Monadhliath, which after a snack I set off to explore.

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A line of fence posts led across easy ground towards Loch na Lairige, snow patches still firm after a frosty night.

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The area around the Loch itself was a maze of peat hags, groughs and hidden gurgling streams under the turf.  It took a while to navigate but still much tamer than my local stomping ground of Kinder Scout and Bleaklow.  I was still cautious not to disappear up to my waist in a bog however as help was a long way away.

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The going got easier once I reached the outflow of the loch and followed it downstream.  One of the secrets of the Monadhliath are its watercourses.  These are usually (but not always) pleasant grassy linear routes through the heather and bog.  A way to make easy progress and find good places to camp.  This one was no different with easy banks to follow.  Large patches of snow were still covering the stream at some points, fragile snow bridges waiting to catch the unwary.

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The feeling of wildness was lost when I reached the Chalybeate Spring, the start of a vehicle track.  It was not visible down by the stream so I sat for a while and had lunch in the warm sunshine.  The track is part of the Hydro scheme, a new addition to the landscape.  I followed it south before taking a branch that contoured high along the hillside visiting several concrete weirs.  To be fair to the developers they have at least made an effort with regards to landscaping, I have seen much worse in the hills. Vegetation is already claiming the surrounding scars.  I would still prefer it not to be there though and there may be much worse to come for this wild and lonely area.  The tall narrow spires of the wind monitoring masts stood like watchful invaders ready to claim their prize.

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The hard surface of the track was not kind on my feet in the heat as I followed it to its terminus at the Allt Cam Ban.  I crossed a well hidden footbridge below the weir and took to boggy ground as I followed the stream upwards.  My intention had been to continue along the north bank but I changed my mind and climbed to the 801 metre summit which is unnamed on the 1:50k map.  Here I sat by the cairn and removed my boots and socks to let my feet steam.  I was totally lost in my thoughts when there was suddenly a smiling figure coming towards me.  It totally startled me to be honest as it was the last place I expected to see anyone.  The thought was mutual as the chap who came and joined me really did not expect to see anyone on a unremarkable hill in such a remote area.  A pleasant half hour was spent chatting with a fellow backpacker and lover of lonely places.  He was spending a few days in the Monadhliath ticking off all the SIMS.  I can’t remember the criteria but there are about 15 million such hills in Scotland.  He had done most of them.

As we parted ways he headed towards Burrach Mor at a cracking pace whilst I descended into a high level bowl where the Allt Cam Ban meets the Allt Cam nan Croc.  My earlier companion had already pitched for the night next to the river, I could just about make out his tent below.  A splendidly wild and remote spot.

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I dropped down close to where he was pitched and followed the stream for a bit.  A green strip led easily though rough ground over the shoulder of Burrach Mor into the rocky headwaters of Coire an t-Sreatha.  The going then became tough and unpleasant for a while, the late hour and a spot of fatigue not helping matters.

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I was relieved to see the roof of the Eskin bothy below me, hopeful that the place would be fit for habitation.  Upon closer inspection is was a ruin, fit only for the desperate to spend a night inside.  At best it is a handy brew spot for when the weather is bad.  The bothy sat at the top of one of the largest cornices that I have ever seen, a huge crevasse showing that gravity would soon release it.  I took a circuitous route down to the valley floor, marvelling at a twenty-foot high snow bank dripping away like a dying glacier.

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From up above the ground looked like it would be perfect for pitching.  However on closer inspection the close-cropped grass was wet and spongy, the snow only recently melted.  It took a while to find a relatively dry spot.  I quickly got the Trailstar up as I was extremely hungry and felt the need for a long lie-down.  Although I was pitched on a valley bottom I was still located at 650 metres, my lowest altitude for many miles.

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April 25, 2014

Four nights alone in the magnificent Monadhliath pt1

by backpackingbongos

The Monadhliath Mountains occupy a huge tract of the Scottish Highlands.  This is not an area of soaring ridges and fearsome pinnacles.  It is a much more understated landscape, one of vast open moorland and hidden river valleys.  A place where you can walk for days and not see a soul, where eagles sour in big sky country.  Apart from the Munros close to Newtonmore it does not hold much appeal to the casual day walker. Instead it is a place which needs to be explored over several consecutive days, nights spent sleeping out far from civilisation.  A chance to move slowly through a landscape that makes you feel small and insignificant.  A place where the journey is more important that any particular destination.

The large area and the fact that there is no one single location that demands a visit made planning a backpack rather difficult.  Places on the map do no instantly leap out at you.  I left home with three rough routes in mind, I would make a last-minute decision as I left the car.  As it turned out I did none of them.  With fantastic weather I ended up making up a route as I went along, exploring places on a whim. My slackpacking tendencies were forgotten.  I had no idea how far I had walked each day or what I would be doing the next.  Arriving home it turned out that I walked eighty glorious kilometres that Easter weekend.  I had a smile on my face for every single one of them.

Day 1 – 10 kilometres with 350 metres ascent

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I was knackered before I even put on my rucksack, the long drive being rather tiring.  During planning I had the inspired idea of parking at Kingussie and getting a taxi to Laggan (there is no public transport between the two).  However when I got to Kingussie there was no answer from the taxi company, I suppose I should have booked in advance.  Instead I shouldered my pack and headed towards Loch Gynack under threatening skies.

The walk along the tarmac parallel to the golf course was a bit of a plod.  A climb through woods and I was on the southern shores of Loch Gynack. This is on the route of the well signed East Highland Way meaning that I could disengage my brain for a while and enjoy the surroundings.

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At the edge of a forest plantation the long distance path was left as it took a dogleg to Newtonmore.  I continued on a cross-country yomp to connect to the track leading up Allt na Beinne.  Here I was hit by a series of vicious squalls; hail, rain and snow blown down the glen in great sheets.  When they came through I had to turn my back and wait a few minutes until they had passed.  A face full of weather is never much fun.

The security of a track was once again left to follow a side stream across rough ground until the Allt a’ Chaorainn was reached.  Here the full force of the wind buffeted me as I set a course above the lively river.

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I dropped down to a grassy patch next to the river hoping that I would get shelter from the wind.  It was not much better to be honest but it was forecast to drop during the night to give a calm and frosty dawn.  I find the Trailstar a bit of a faff to erect in the wind but I had soon wrestled it into shape.

It was the evening of my birthday and I was billy no mates.  For some reason my wife did not find the thought of spending the Easter Weekend exploring remote moorland very appealing.  With five days off work I felt the need to put them to good use.  The glorious weather that followed meant that I was glad that I had.

Although a short day mileage wise I was knackered.  I did not even need to switch on my torch as I was asleep by 9.00pm.

Day 2 – 18 kilometres with 660 metres ascent

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(You can click on the map to make it bigger)

The wind did indeed drop during the night and so did the temperature.  I woke sometime before dawn and glanced at my watch by my head, it registered -2 C in the inner tent.  My platypus was fill of ice when I took a sip from it.  I shivered and burrowed further into my sleeping bag.  Although fully awake I decided that I would not move until the warmth of the sun had hit the Trailstar.  Being next to a high bank that did not happen until 9.00am by which time I was fast asleep again.  One of the pleasures of backpacking alone is that you can set your own schedule.  With the days getting longer I felt no urge to get up and begin walking at the crack of dawn.

I enjoyed bumbling around camp, both the location and weather were spectacular.  I did not think that it was possible for the sky to be so blue.  It was tempting to stay there for hours and laze about but I was determined to make the most of the weather.  It was gone 11am by the time I had packed and found a point to cross the river.

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As I ascended the Munro of A’ Chailleach I could make out tiny figures on the main path above.  I took a pathless route alongside a small side stream, the heather becoming shorter and crisper with height.  I stopped often to take in the views.  As well as the skies being free from clouds the visibility was near perfect, the horizon being filled with snowy peaks.  There were so many that it was hard to get my bearings and identify them.

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The main path was picked up on the final rise to the summit, which was marked with a large cairn.  The Cairngorms across the Spey Valley looked spectacular, however my attention was drawn to the north and west.  The wilds of the Monadhliath was what I had come for, endless waves of high hills rolling towards the horizon.

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I could make out several groups of people either on or heading towards the summit of Carn Sgulain across the deep trench of Allt Cuil na Caillich.  I had visited the summit many years ago and did not feel a need to do so again.  Therefore a feint path was followed to the north-west, a circuitous route being taken to avoid steep snow banks on either side of the stream.  Instead of making a beeline direct to the summit ridge ahead I contoured around a shallow coire, reaching the line of fence posts just west of Meall a’ Bhothain.

I regretted leaving my sunglasses in the car, especially when crossing the extensive snow patches.  Even with a cap that sheltered my face, the snow was dazzling under the strong sun.  Leaving a snow patch my vision would be like what you get when you walk into a dark room on a bright summers day.

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Carn Dearg had some fine cornices along its eastern facing cliffs.  However it is another Monadhliath Munro that I had previously climbed so decided not to bother with the detour.

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I was tempted to contour around the northern slopes of Carn Ban but that area was still covered in extensive snow, including the fringes of Lochan Uisage.  Without sunglasses my eyes would be fried walking that way and the snow was becoming soft and arduous in the warm afternoon sun.

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It is not often that you get to stride out at such a height in the British hills and I relished every moment of the day.  Often the going was easy across a mossy and stone covered tundra.  This would be interspersed by bare areas of peat and networks of peat hags.  I decided not to climb Carn Odhar na Criche, instead dropping into the headwaters of Allt Odhar.  Here the peat was still wet and the snow deep, often giving way, hard work on tiring legs.

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There was not much shelter on the plateau but the weather forecast for the night was good.  I picked a spot that was covered in a luxurious carpet of moss on which to pitch.  At 830 metres the temperatures quickly started to drop as the sun slipped towards the horizon. Unfortunately I had pitched in a such a spot that the setting sun was not visible.  Feeling cold and tired I crawled straight into the Trailstar to get a hot drink and make dinner.  It was below freezing long before I fell asleep.

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