getting into backpacking and nostalgia

Mon, Jul 18, 2011

London Backpacker has an interesting guest post (guest posters seem to be all the rage at the mo. That’s the third blog that’s started them recently) on getting into backpacking on a budget. It’s a good article and a timely one too, what with the outdoors press reviewing backpacking tents that cost 600 pounds plus. I mean, that’s just silly money and no tent is worth the better part of a grand. You can pick up a 2kg pop up tent for a few quid these days! But perhaps 600 quid for a tent might be the future as Robin over at blogpackinglight suggests the Chinese manufacturing ecosystem might be in danger of collapse. Is this a good thing? Based on my Made in China KSBs that fell apart after a couple of months, or my Made in China Mountain Hardwear gaiters that fell apart after a week, you would think so.

But it all got me thinking about my first foray into backpacking so I dug out my old journals and it turned out it was 15-17 May 1985, from Glen Kinglass to Corrour. I was 17 and a newly minted Munro Bagger with an epic winter ascent of Beinn Narnain (sans axe, crampons, head torch and hill sense) under my belt back in February of that year with another epic winter ascent of Beinn Ime due the next January before I invested in an ice axe. Crampons had to wait until a job materialised. Back then, folk made do. I well remember a winter ascent of Beinn Dorain direct from the door of the Bridge of Orchy Hotel with the handyman. I was 19, the breakfast chef and a veritable winter veteran by then complete with axe and crampons but Geoff was new to the game. I suggested we find at least an axe for him as we were heading straight up the east ridge rather than the corrie and he winked and said “I know just the thing”. 5 mins later he emerged from the shed at the back of the hotel with the metal arm of a chair grasped in his eager big hands! It was basically a heavy, solid metal right angle and it worked a treat on the steep snow of the ridge. He eventually wondered what all the fuss was about.

Anyway to return to Glen Kinglass. My journal notes that I was “absolutely amazed” at the sight of two other walkers in that remote area. Back then the hills were very quiet and I caught up with them at the pony shed half way along Loch Dochard. They had the latest gear and looked well to do. I had a 5 quid pair of boots and 5 quid metal framed bright red rucksack from the SYHA shop in Glasgow, back in the days when it was up a stair off Renfield Street. I remember the wee maps you could get of hill paths that I used to pore over for hours and hours, imagining trips into wild places. The rucksack was too small for all my gear which was basically an enormous sleeping bag and third hand single skin tent that closed using safety pins. So to provide more storage space I carried an enormous poly bag from a supermarket who’s name is now long forgotten. There was just enough room to get my hands into the handles that stretched alarmingly and I had to change hands quite often on the walk in. An anorak and jumper plus a day-glo railway workman’s ankle length waterproof jacket completed the gear list. Oh and a camping gaz stove, pot and tins of soup and beans. The two bods couldn’t believe what they saw!

I camped at the head of Glen Kinglass next to the old wooden bridge and was up all night pinning the flailing tent to the ground in the face of a howling gale and lashing rain but I’d taken precautions earlier in the evening by heating up the soup and storing it in the giant tartan flask I carried, which sustained me through the rough night shift. By 4:15 am the tent was a write off so I packed up and headed off around 6am back towards Bridge of Orchy, setting giant herds of deer racing off across the head of the glen as I hauled my poly bag back to the pony shed and a well earned brew up.

It was that wild night that sewed the seeds of adventure in me. I was on the remote side of Beinn Starbh and Beinn nan Aigheanan and the scudding black clouds and torrential sheets of rain made a lasting impression on my over active imagination. I’d never seen rain so physical before. It was so thick I could have cut it and dropped a dollop into my cold soup to release it from its stodgeness. Looking back, the wind must have switched in the night as by 6am there were hundreds of deer sheltering at the head of the glen where the steep headwall climbs up to Loch Dochard. I didn’t put the two together at the time but it’s interesting to think back with more experienced eyes and realise how the weather was affecting other creatures that night.

On the walk out everything was soaked and ten times its dry weight and I was festooned with pots and tins that clanked and clanged all the way back. I resembled a character from a popular TV programme of the time, The Gorbals Diehards, when they went camping. I had blisters the full length of the soles of my feet and my boots were trashed. The tent was trashed and the rucksack straps were on their last legs but I was on a high for weeks. It was the beginning of a long love affair with wild places.

Fast forward to the wise old age of 19. I’d progressed to a Force Ten (courtesy of Madame Bru and her fortnightly cheques) and a Trangia, which I used to fill to the brim every time. The picture below is at Barrisdale Bothy in the late 80s after a winter’s day on Ladhar Bheinn. After polishing off the curry I was handed a wafer biscuit and caviar from the group who were celebrating a last munro! There was a tradition back then of wearing the famous Clachaig Inn t-shirt and I went through about half a dozen of them, especially when I started rock climbing.

We spool forward a few more years and still no sign of lightweight breathable gear. The stuff existed. Goretex could be had for a king’s ransom and Yeti gaiters were the uniform of the yuppie hillgoer. It was the tradition to glue them to your boots which meant you had to have a separate pair of boots for winter as wearing yetis in summer just trashed them. They were designed for walking above the snowline. Everest, Alps, that sort of thing but the well heeled Man About the Munros wasn’t complete without his pair of bright red yetis. The rest of us made do with boil in the bag waterproofs. They were completely waterproof but had zero breathability so you ended up soaked anyway. The picture below is of me and my best pal, Penguin, just about to set off up the Inaccessible Pinnacle (my third ascent I think) in the early 90s. My climbing gear was already about 20 years old by the time I got it and the big heavy gripless boots made for an exciting climb in the heavy rain and gale force wind.

These days, I’m glad youngsters can get out on the hill fairly cheaply. Although the cheapness is still there, the quality is much improved and a thirty quid pair of boots today will far outlast a 5 quid pair of boots of twenty years ago. A small budget will go a long way today, especially if you take a risk on ebay with secondhand gear. There’s never been an easier time to get into the outdoors but I think the biggest revolution has still to come. When I started, way back in the late 70s as a scout watching cloud shadows race across the upper slopes of Ben More at Crianlarich, I had to understand contours, bearings, symbols, compasses, maps. The tools of the gangrel. When GPS is cheap, ubiquitous and reliable I think the perception of the outdoors will turn in a new direction. These days I get the feeling that folk regard the outdoors as just another thing to do with their copious amounts of free time. Buy the gear, do the activity, move on to the next one.

For a scrawny thirteen year old recreating mountains out of polystyrene sheets with a hot wire and map down the local scout hut, it was the key that unlocked a completely different way of life. I’ve never regretted a minute of it.