A WILD NIGHT
In the first of a new series run in partnership with Hilleberg, a host of outdoor enthusiasts describe some of their hairiest moments in wild places – and the gear that got them through it. Here, Chris Townsend recalls a fierce night in the Cairngorms
THERE WAS A GENTLE BREEZE blowing as I set off from
Glen Feshie to climb onto the cloud-shrouded Moine Mhor in the western Cairngorms. After weeks of rain and wind, the forecast was for a weather window of maybe 20 hours, a ridge of high pressure building in the afternoon and lasting into the next morning before the gales returned. Just enough time for a high-level camp.
As I reached the vast, boggy plateau the clouds had risen, and I could look across russet-tinged slopes to the dome of Mullach Clach a’Bhlair. Far below, the twisting deep cut of Coire Garbhlach looked impressively gloomy and dramatic. To the east the higher summits of Braeriach and Cairn Toul were still hidden in the mist. I wandered across the rain-sodden slopes. Am Moine Mhor means ‘the big moss’, and it’s usually wet.
Today it was even wetter. The drier, stonier slopes of Mullach Clach a’Bhlair were welcome. I wasn’t lingering here though.
In case the weather changed earlier than forecast I descended the long east ridge of the mountain, the Druim nam Bo, to Lochan nam Bo. Here, at 755 metres, I pitched the Hilleberg Soulo just as darkness fell. The forest in Glen Feshie lay just a kilometre away. I like to have an escape route when storms are forecast.
I’d brought the Soulo in case the storm reached me during the night. It’s the strongest, most stable solo tent I know.
At 1am I was woken by very strong gusty winds and heavy rain hammering on the outer tent, and I was very glad I’d chosen it over a lighter but less stable tent. The noise from the wind was tremendous. I had no worries the Soulo would collapse, but after lying there listening to the storm for half an hour I realised I wouldn’t get back to sleep unless the roaring and rattling abated.
As the shelter of the forest wasn’t far below I decided to pack up and descend into the trees.
The night was pitch-black. The rain lashing down. The wind knocking me sideways. I knew there was an old, little-used path down into the trees. A compass bearing located it but then I lost it several times, trying to follow it down through knee-deep heather. After an hour I was on the glen floor. The wind was still howling down here. I wanted shelter but I didn’t want to camp under the trees in case one came down in the storm. Eventually I found a spot by a tree that had already toppled. It didn’t really offer much shelter, but it felt a bit less exposed than being right out in the open. I pitched the Soulo again, not much more than a kilometre from my first camp but over 400 metres lower. The wind was quieter here and I was tired from my night-time descent. I soon fell asleep.
I woke to grey daylight, heavy rain and a gusty wind. The tops were hidden in the racing clouds. A flock of fieldfares flew low over the tent. Stags were roaring not far away, indifferent to the storm. I packed up and headed down the glen. There was no question of going back up the hills.
It had been an exciting trip – rather more exciting than
I’d hoped. I wouldn’t forget the night descent for a long time.
I was very glad I’d taken the Soulo. This was just the conditions for its stability and security.