tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47784529106474845642024-03-19T02:00:31.488-07:00Kernowclimber at Purple Peak AdventuresA blog devoted to outdoor pursuits and adventure travelKernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-26144492240735518062017-02-25T09:19:00.000-08:002017-02-28T02:59:07.530-08:00The Kingdom of Cod: Winter in Norway’s Lofoten Islands<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The coccyx-shaped Lofoten archipelago defiantly juts out into
the frigid waters of the <st1:place w:st="on">Norwegian Sea</st1:place>.
Situated north of the <st1:place w:st="on">Arctic Circle</st1:place>, winter in
this chain of mountainous islands rising straight out of the roiling ocean like
an impenetrable wall of rock, is utterly spellbinding, an otherworldly
wonderland of frosted glass etched against constantly changing skies that range
from steel-grey to candy-pink.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scenic view of Reine on the island of <span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Moskenesøya</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: justify;">Comprised of a multitude of various sized islands, according
to Norse legend the Lofoten archipelago was created by the hammer-wielding god Thor,
who flung fistfuls of rocks into the sea. The population of 24,500 is
concentrated on four main islands running from Austvågøy in the north through
Vestvågøy and Flakstadøya to Moskenesøya in the south. The E10 highway now links
these four islands via a series of bridges and sea tunnels.</span></div>
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We fly into Kiruna in neighbouring <st1:country-region w:st="on">Sweden</st1:country-region> where a 4X4 vehicle hire is half the
price of that in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Norway</st1:country-region>,
and where we are able to avail of much cheaper food and alcohol for our week’s self-catering
stay in Lofoten. A six hour drive brings us to our first accommodation at Lyngværet
in Austvågøy, a cosy and beautifully furnished wooden cabin above the island’s rocky
shoreline. After a three night stay we drive south to Moskenesøya and the fishing
village of Å (pronounced ‘aw’ which means ‘rivulet’ in Old Norse), a cluster of
rust-red and ochre-yellow houses overlooked by a formidable range of snow-frosted
mountains, a film-maker’s dream. Here we settle into a rustically furnished
traditional fisherman’s cabin jutting right out over the cellophane-clear water
in the harbour.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rorbuer in the fishing village of Å. Ours is the second from the left </td></tr>
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Everywhere the raw salt-laden air is pungent with the unmistakable
stench of fish which constantly assaults the nostrils. Lofoten is the world’s
largest cod fishery. For centuries fishermen from near and far have converged on
these islands in midwinter, chasing great shoals of <i>skrei</i> (Arctic cod in their prime) that have migrated south from the
Barents Sea to spawn. Cod has long been the lifeblood of this archipelago, and
the ubiquitous rust-red <i>rorbuer -</i> wooden
huts on spindly stilts projecting over the sea and connected by wooden walkways
that were once the temporary homes of the migrant fishermen - are among the islands' most characteristic sights. Formerly painted with a mixture of fish blood and
cod-liver oil and sporting grass roofs, many, including those we stayed in,
have now been converted into tourist accommodation. For the fishing industry
has witnessed a drastic decline from its zenith at the turn of the twentieth
century. In those days something like 25,000 fishermen would descend on the
Lofotens from late-January for the three month cod-fishing season.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Stockfish Museum in the village of Å</td></tr>
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However, despite this decline, the islanders remain firmly wedded
to the fishing industry and as ubiquitous as the <i>rorbuer</i> are the enormous wooden drying frames (<i>hjell</i>) that seem to occupy
every windswept rock. These are used to produce stockfish, cod that have been
decapitated, gutted, split along the spine and hung over poles by their tails
to dry in the salty <st1:place w:st="on">Arctic</st1:place> air from February
to May, when cold weather conditions protect the fish from insects and prevents uncontrolled bacterial growth. After this, it<span style="text-align: start;"> is removed from the <i>hjell</i> to
be matured for another two to three months indoors in a dry and airy
environment until it is around a fifth of its original weight. </span>Losing
none of its nutritional value in the drying process, the Lent-friendly
stockfish is much prized, particularly in the Catholic countries of southern
Europe, and also in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Nigeria</st1:country-region> where
demand has risen sharply and in 2014 eclipsed exports to <st1:country-region w:st="on">Italy</st1:country-region>.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stockfish fillets drying on<i> hjell</i> in the cold Arctic air</td></tr>
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A more macabre sight are the racks of severed cod heads bound
for the West African market. Their mouths wide open as if gasping for their
last breath reveal grisly rows of razor sharp teeth but no tongues - these are
a local delicacy and have been cut out. Strung together in snow-dusted bundles,
their swim-bladders hang down like limp balloons from beneath blackened gills,
while overhead cawing crows and wailing seagulls wheel in the wind, awaiting
their chance to swoop down to peck out their glazed and lifeless eyes.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Racks of fish heads drying near Myrland</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cod fish heads being dried for export to West Africa</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An aerial view of fish heads drying on racks on the island of Vestvågøy </td></tr>
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The Lofoten archipelago is also the centre of the country’s
whaling industry. <st1:country-region w:st="on">Norway</st1:country-region> is
one of just three nations, along with <st1:country-region w:st="on">Japan</st1:country-region>
and <st1:country-region w:st="on">Iceland</st1:country-region>,
that continue to hunt whales against the tide of public opinion. Setting aside
the opprobrium of those who wish to see whaling banned, we dine out at the
upmarket <i>Paleo Arctic</i> restaurant in Svolvær
which draws inspiration from a time when we lived as hunters and gatherers. Here
we feast upon smoked fin whale with a soft poached egg, organic sour cream and
Norwegian crisp bread. This is followed by a succulent grilled fillet of wild reindeer
with mushrooms, mountain cranberry, pickled raisins and seasonal root
vegetables, rounded off with a divinely spiced panna cotta and washed down with
a hearty Rioja. The food didn’t stick in my croup, but the bill most certainly
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The weather at this latitude is mercurial and unpredictable
and can change in an instance; our mid-February photography trip unhappily
coincides with a period of bitterly cold unsettled weather. For days on end a
cruel Arctic wind howls through the narrow streets of the <i>fiskevær</i> (fishing villages) and
lifts great columns of whirling spindrift that tear malevolently across the frigid
landscape. The mercury plummets to sub-zero temperatures draining every last
vestige of warmth from our bodies, the blinding spindrift blasts our faces which
sting with the eviscerating cold and our fingers are too numb and frozen to operate a
camera. On such days a shot of <i>Linie</i>,
the famous Norwegian aquavit matured at sea in oak sherry casks, is a very
welcome antidote against the deep-freezer climate.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sun momentarily breaks through the cloud during a sudden storm</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martin attempting timelapse photography on a wild and windy Haukland Beach</td></tr>
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The grey-green sea seethes, the pounding surf slams onto ice
encrusted shorelines and waves lash against the stilted <i>rorbuer</i> that are somehow anchored firmly enough to shelves of rock
to resist the relentless onslaught of the ocean. As I watch a brightly lit
fishing boat making for shore near Reine at dusk, I think of the fishermen of
yore heading back through storm-tossed waters to land their catch, drawn ashore
by the welcoming warm glow of candlelight from the windows of these <i>rorbuer </i>in the <i>fiskevær</i> dotting
the coast. Many did not make it, and every fishing community has its share of
tragic stories of men pitched to a watery grave by the merciless sea.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from Flakstad towards Hustingen </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A lone rorbu stands at the entrance to an inlet at Tind </td></tr>
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Indeed, American novelist Edgar Allan Poe’s short story, <i>A Descent into the Maelström</i>, tells the
story of a man who survived his ship being drawn into and swallowed by the <i>Moskstraumen</i>, a system of tidal eddies
and whirlpools between Lofoten Point on Moskenesøya and the islet of Mosken. The
words of William Whiting’s hymn, <i>Eternal Father,
Strong to Save</i>, could have been written for the folk of Lofoten
who, for centuries cut off from the mainland and surrounded by the sea, were forced by necessity to place their fate in the hands of the elements:</div>
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<i>‘Oh, hear us when we
cry to Thee, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>For those in peril on
the sea!’<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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For hours at a time heavy falls of snow blow by the windows of our hut in a
horizontal blur. The thick flakes quickly bank up against the door and gather
in the corners of the window frames, shrouding the surrounding landscape in an
even blanket of pillow-soft whiteness. There is something mesmerising and deeply
relaxing about watching the falling snow from the comfort of a cabin warmed by
a wood burning stove, and time appears to stand still.</div>
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The lacerating and whining winds eventually blow themselves
out, leaving a profound but temporary stillness until the next weather front
sweeps in. The great cloak of whey-white snow seems to muffle most sound save
the constant shrieking of the seabirds. As we sally forth into this white
wonderland, the crunch and squeal of the freshly fallen powdery flakes beneath
my boots is deeply gratifying and the creation of pristine boot prints seems to
bring out the inner child in me!</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio7fVvScmJhleCWnYjrAfV2evvLw-V0mCgPEtZfMd9-gKTCN-ybRhBYmyeZ3dYG6dDd-Oaj4mFoS6KLz8b6a_XRMowAb7YP_CNsjAROdLgp9vvxC0PtJd0eRoB-pYV11mL46xLuCKWc1iG/s1600/Blog-17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio7fVvScmJhleCWnYjrAfV2evvLw-V0mCgPEtZfMd9-gKTCN-ybRhBYmyeZ3dYG6dDd-Oaj4mFoS6KLz8b6a_XRMowAb7YP_CNsjAROdLgp9vvxC0PtJd0eRoB-pYV11mL46xLuCKWc1iG/s320/Blog-17.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An abandoned ice blasted farmhouse near Yttersand </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Between these squally weather fronts the sun appears
fleetingly, at times a match-head blazing white hot and amber, splitting the
flint-grey sky into patches of speedwell-blue
interrupted by billowing cloud in shades of pale-apricot, smoke-yellow and chalky-mauve;
minutes later it is a wan disc floating in an immense misty greyness like a
Chinese lantern. And all the while the monochrome landscape exudes a pearly-grey opalescence and
seems to gleam with surreal lucidity against these extraordinary kaleidoscopic skies.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgufNXfjfbUBuHW7vYUasDY2lkw3eas3k9s4mToChZQnOSKGS7QzyfpbcNikhHfCfb7DSjXU1M5cweh2SubypuVNPmnX9bivdOl_z4UBzXDZ1bIGMjgmhAjUNqYkv_mEUt8XI1YvU8MsQBr/s1600/Blog-0A.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgufNXfjfbUBuHW7vYUasDY2lkw3eas3k9s4mToChZQnOSKGS7QzyfpbcNikhHfCfb7DSjXU1M5cweh2SubypuVNPmnX9bivdOl_z4UBzXDZ1bIGMjgmhAjUNqYkv_mEUt8XI1YvU8MsQBr/s320/Blog-0A.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from Austvågøy across to Vestvågøy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMY3wZPjHsN-bTvT-jESdJEupQYsuQJOXA9yqBJF47LizDxPdacCJEdBAL3CgdmH5al5PewiNBXkGHkdj8BcDdcyxvqbhjWsGGup2L80Bk4ciyiVkemeA1xUn9X6mTRk4DXXHURFa5FwOq/s1600/Blog-26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMY3wZPjHsN-bTvT-jESdJEupQYsuQJOXA9yqBJF47LizDxPdacCJEdBAL3CgdmH5al5PewiNBXkGHkdj8BcDdcyxvqbhjWsGGup2L80Bk4ciyiVkemeA1xUn9X6mTRk4DXXHURFa5FwOq/s320/Blog-26.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A watery, snow flurried dawn taken from the balcony of our rorbu in Å </td></tr>
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In the feeble sunlight the reflections of the <i>rorbuer</i> and the mountains appear to float and shimmer with a mirage-like quality in the becalmed waters of numerous inlets; the snow
glitters in the low sun angle as if it was pulverised diamond dust and
glistening icicles drip like candle wax from the eaves of the huts. The blackened
naked boughs of the birch groan under the weight of their newly acquired white
finery, while conifers look as if they have been lifted straight from the pages
of a Hans Christian Andersen fairy story. Then there are truly enchanting evenings
when the sky is tinged with a candy pink blush which announces the settling
sun.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN4xPFDGDwWA6pFDlkbkLHnVZlXr3ywmFlnGhzDPr5RGvagmVyEdXxXta4FaGPINJGjaKfZaY6qHuQ3GRx-VJzR1AnEgB4hvGOoICIfXvWU5nkrQr8PUThe_ykRbBUP3rQ-Nbcr1TQg_rJ/s1600/Blog-33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN4xPFDGDwWA6pFDlkbkLHnVZlXr3ywmFlnGhzDPr5RGvagmVyEdXxXta4FaGPINJGjaKfZaY6qHuQ3GRx-VJzR1AnEgB4hvGOoICIfXvWU5nkrQr8PUThe_ykRbBUP3rQ-Nbcr1TQg_rJ/s320/Blog-33.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nusfjord is one of the oldest and best preserved fiskevær (fishing villages) in Norway</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp4l3WLn-93ePAxxVce8E7DkKtcsHDuFUSSwuTgh5Co2my-_QEsfxokQ9S_kiGuPGiHJkmyCMS4gugAFQ6uoFjfKZ36D3yuIU8XCVZqiMfZ0CJVgbHlhY-Rg8ke6lX6q8maDVvNc0_-DiM/s1600/Blog-32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp4l3WLn-93ePAxxVce8E7DkKtcsHDuFUSSwuTgh5Co2my-_QEsfxokQ9S_kiGuPGiHJkmyCMS4gugAFQ6uoFjfKZ36D3yuIU8XCVZqiMfZ0CJVgbHlhY-Rg8ke6lX6q8maDVvNc0_-DiM/s320/Blog-32.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rorbuer near Reine</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT56tV38ZTn1zHKQtdjbIxaZcnj-fCZNKt_jpgFrMcQa9JTyKm_KJoNDdh-QGjoWQsXKr26D-n3dRHKBdiv9roRcdSsqI9WcsdXCuv-WMusFcL0lqwY2dDC9hSOuQmJjbN_vWVkxUC-bFG/s1600/Blog-34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT56tV38ZTn1zHKQtdjbIxaZcnj-fCZNKt_jpgFrMcQa9JTyKm_KJoNDdh-QGjoWQsXKr26D-n3dRHKBdiv9roRcdSsqI9WcsdXCuv-WMusFcL0lqwY2dDC9hSOuQmJjbN_vWVkxUC-bFG/s320/Blog-34.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Icicles ooze from the eaves of a rorbu in the village of Nusfjord</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQBDynvo0WTXiXfuWYWneVo5IMawyWDorlp1s1I-NNUyGOvSuqiclUkP_HQqtwIaMGTIam3Qr9nR2KgGiLsAEvW7zyb4BhFme2DIU069JWAA7aOHFfSDJ7g9nyOngC2zHF0OlD2j3nSQbi/s1600/Blog-37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQBDynvo0WTXiXfuWYWneVo5IMawyWDorlp1s1I-NNUyGOvSuqiclUkP_HQqtwIaMGTIam3Qr9nR2KgGiLsAEvW7zyb4BhFme2DIU069JWAA7aOHFfSDJ7g9nyOngC2zHF0OlD2j3nSQbi/s320/Blog-37.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Candy pink dusk near Nusfjord</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Even on the dullest day, the near-shore has an aquamarine
hue which fades into bottle-green which then gives way to the petrol-blue yonder of the deep sea speckled
with white horses, all of which serve to enhance the deep gold of picture-postcard perfect
sandy beaches.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz-LntU8oP2ACOD0cPkZsOAcfsve8KLzoMti5-aPQYJX1sOLioxFVZX7GA0PqlVOc1syM-sW0mi-jghUN3cV2A_km8R5BvDcR7FnQ-Xay0LAQ9KdlIWYu95TK1b8MFLL4jKxOAK6_m3rl2/s1600/Blog-20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="82" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz-LntU8oP2ACOD0cPkZsOAcfsve8KLzoMti5-aPQYJX1sOLioxFVZX7GA0PqlVOc1syM-sW0mi-jghUN3cV2A_km8R5BvDcR7FnQ-Xay0LAQ9KdlIWYu95TK1b8MFLL4jKxOAK6_m3rl2/s320/Blog-20.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ramberg Beach panorama</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-a79ogE84Rx5I1fFa9x_it05egZ8wu2Y7Q9D9b8F3Nucq_FYJn5dWRApB-Tpy1_k8zgzQU9TPXwdWXlejdaJLK7QwdQfillsmXy0K3eUj9eE6m_bnMrfkxgxYw7TYO71Wc76saXzRfhZ6/s1600/Blog-22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-a79ogE84Rx5I1fFa9x_it05egZ8wu2Y7Q9D9b8F3Nucq_FYJn5dWRApB-Tpy1_k8zgzQU9TPXwdWXlejdaJLK7QwdQfillsmXy0K3eUj9eE6m_bnMrfkxgxYw7TYO71Wc76saXzRfhZ6/s320/Blog-22.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cabin at Ramberg Beach</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglVBPIhRtlTpqs272PBEOlUaugYpy4lOz2RoZOWAvW6Ypf-NJkoLPWamytWyzkc-SkP6rG5sx3j5r51wiM4-z5d9zqakdgSs8bLLp9jlZgAN_hUXqQadsNDaPNY9fJzbowDrWiHNb1hIb9/s1600/Blog-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglVBPIhRtlTpqs272PBEOlUaugYpy4lOz2RoZOWAvW6Ypf-NJkoLPWamytWyzkc-SkP6rG5sx3j5r51wiM4-z5d9zqakdgSs8bLLp9jlZgAN_hUXqQadsNDaPNY9fJzbowDrWiHNb1hIb9/s320/Blog-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Huakland Beach between the storms</td></tr>
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<div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;">
<span style="text-align: left;">In the blue hour, the chilled lavender-blue landscape contrasts with the warm amber rectangles of light emanating from the windows of the </span><i style="text-align: left;">rorbuer</i><span style="text-align: left;">, and the settlements hemmed in between mountain and sea resemble a string of fairy lights which are reflected in the inky-blue water.</span></div>
<div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;">
<span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHbaZRqFnYqUbcGSEl-_pgLQ7tq3iIyiO3-kpaIf2XU2YbEIGDXM9HDaRkXoamnywJLJIHpBpAsv_Qxs-HK7XLyeoSniIYZQw8sA94lFB5lIc_hAEeD1kKUstcztM02cw0_YfRcbnr-jz5/s1600/Blog-25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHbaZRqFnYqUbcGSEl-_pgLQ7tq3iIyiO3-kpaIf2XU2YbEIGDXM9HDaRkXoamnywJLJIHpBpAsv_Qxs-HK7XLyeoSniIYZQw8sA94lFB5lIc_hAEeD1kKUstcztM02cw0_YfRcbnr-jz5/s320/Blog-25.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another weather front sweeping in off the Norwegian Sea towards the fishing village of Reine</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKYLT9kkVVsMl9n2MxSSvIEDeJGlUBj0hUIp7fBjvmTAfqMgQ7W3ku5gx0aWzZwueYybAVFZOrRsNEwLPSBP4IcQAi8k56IyLsMIUqoUU8S-oftnkGTRzknactWlXDBTpFY2x2v66yUfSG/s1600/Blog-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKYLT9kkVVsMl9n2MxSSvIEDeJGlUBj0hUIp7fBjvmTAfqMgQ7W3ku5gx0aWzZwueYybAVFZOrRsNEwLPSBP4IcQAi8k56IyLsMIUqoUU8S-oftnkGTRzknactWlXDBTpFY2x2v66yUfSG/s320/Blog-6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blue hour at the fishing village of <span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Hamnøy on</span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> Moskenes island</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik7roRiqFdIvf_P1ZQIzIvYhGxmo-xmg4ipximevHvDmKt3qDGBxlnyPK6JIwrVJj8phuhR3jDYCSBNMMVMVKz_8ew_ZZoV8RxObVf7kt0sDaIVOohXAB0z5sMeGfq2j31homXgeySfZEj/s1600/Blog-23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik7roRiqFdIvf_P1ZQIzIvYhGxmo-xmg4ipximevHvDmKt3qDGBxlnyPK6JIwrVJj8phuhR3jDYCSBNMMVMVKz_8ew_ZZoV8RxObVf7kt0sDaIVOohXAB0z5sMeGfq2j31homXgeySfZEj/s320/Blog-23.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="MsoNormal">
Sakrisøy Rorbuer</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHfmCPY3aShIUefkBNjY3iHo89DUUadUNISeT6JF_3rex9G6T3EdG41_P7dS9ZTr6VuVf1kO3vUv1j-r4ztjsgoaVObE3xKJrWyNIsFzsVHFqQOAKRt7jd49Xw8Wvdri7IlD3sFrbLOpHG/s1600/Blog-10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHfmCPY3aShIUefkBNjY3iHo89DUUadUNISeT6JF_3rex9G6T3EdG41_P7dS9ZTr6VuVf1kO3vUv1j-r4ztjsgoaVObE3xKJrWyNIsFzsVHFqQOAKRt7jd49Xw8Wvdri7IlD3sFrbLOpHG/s320/Blog-10.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The wizard's hat-shaped mountain at Reine</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcs6o5JKJf4Fexq7hrquY0wziSC0B9wSt0P4zbh_t2NXfkZLzxJmLPF0px3nsy3IXJ3vmwc1lDjsjy1TiMUbcJMoS8xzf3yzuzcoXSE7Pk5kTvEYp8KSYPCcMUXRvygpZAj_eocOiyaUr/s1600/Blog-24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcs6o5JKJf4Fexq7hrquY0wziSC0B9wSt0P4zbh_t2NXfkZLzxJmLPF0px3nsy3IXJ3vmwc1lDjsjy1TiMUbcJMoS8xzf3yzuzcoXSE7Pk5kTvEYp8KSYPCcMUXRvygpZAj_eocOiyaUr/s320/Blog-24.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View looking down on Sakrisøy from the nearby hill of Olenilsøya</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="text-align: left;">These brief interludes between the storms are rewarded with
dramatic views of mountains of the kind only young children draw – spiky,
sky-piercing, majestic - and attract scores of other photographers all jostling
for space, as eager as we are to commit these breathtaking vistas to film. Unfortunately,
the constantly cloudy skies mean that we are not treated to the celestial light
show of the Aurora Borealis which is undoubtedly the main draw to this northern
region in winter for many photographers.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1pNDp3cbhjZr4lpENjCiy-NkO7ssOHgdya_EP-DiEggqoiTm6cWuzAHXQbdcMWIFHusuMfjx8Q5qnAqU-o5o72ldtr2xrsHrbttZ-wwSljfxQBH5RWkTHZbFxPmukD4jFKvgCT3-EliOp/s1600/Blog-30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1pNDp3cbhjZr4lpENjCiy-NkO7ssOHgdya_EP-DiEggqoiTm6cWuzAHXQbdcMWIFHusuMfjx8Q5qnAqU-o5o72ldtr2xrsHrbttZ-wwSljfxQBH5RWkTHZbFxPmukD4jFKvgCT3-EliOp/s320/Blog-30.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rorbuer in Reine beneath steel grey skies</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9pNY6ZqOn9y-tThaCFJaPkcE8ZvQjVkJ5WRn2AFn2yFdphv-XmQzZg8r7JzB_eias97TVJJnIv3qI79p8jgYYiZaHD-nG-bgBTf5pxF3CSEFh0_IpoTmVfJeQ1xg0877r_r6qyZNnXOgg/s1600/Blog-18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9pNY6ZqOn9y-tThaCFJaPkcE8ZvQjVkJ5WRn2AFn2yFdphv-XmQzZg8r7JzB_eias97TVJJnIv3qI79p8jgYYiZaHD-nG-bgBTf5pxF3CSEFh0_IpoTmVfJeQ1xg0877r_r6qyZNnXOgg/s320/Blog-18.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View over Ramberg Beach</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="text-align: justify;">Our stay in Lofoten has been a mere prelude, the place has permeated my very soul. As we drive away from our final photo stop in the heritage-listed
Nusfjord fishing village, we are already imagining an autumn return,
when the mountains will have cast off their snowy apparel opening up a whole
new world of walking, trekking and photo opportunities amid the unparalleled
beauty and splendour of this, The Kingdom of Cod.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgconii0SsmIDQ8UvS9xrhh6gbz8MNIUBkOaCxKAjV5Is1PpD8wHacxq0oU2JHx_0I-hcfBQMzcKQPg8Vyl2UkYtL5JZ91xJJ7b5NFe6wLLfF7ccjp_YguJ-wwPBlgqNQaCS6zOkTanyQGM/s1600/Blog-21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgconii0SsmIDQ8UvS9xrhh6gbz8MNIUBkOaCxKAjV5Is1PpD8wHacxq0oU2JHx_0I-hcfBQMzcKQPg8Vyl2UkYtL5JZ91xJJ7b5NFe6wLLfF7ccjp_YguJ-wwPBlgqNQaCS6zOkTanyQGM/s320/Blog-21.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of Bjørntinden and M<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">ø</span>ntinden from Yttersand Beach</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDUYwXsC0UZcYgkjHhS9wN6vSpAjBoTN7OiAi4SfSmBs2UmUhhAXh2kYFOi-YSna5a50P5ojiEr7-GpCJiVnLU7CrxiD3IJOI35N6MWoPoaFRPPKewb5U1GZs5dbTNHvs2_KzWqINYHDbE/s1600/Blog-16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDUYwXsC0UZcYgkjHhS9wN6vSpAjBoTN7OiAi4SfSmBs2UmUhhAXh2kYFOi-YSna5a50P5ojiEr7-GpCJiVnLU7CrxiD3IJOI35N6MWoPoaFRPPKewb5U1GZs5dbTNHvs2_KzWqINYHDbE/s320/Blog-16.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Panoramic view from Yttersand Beach</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-76529379374284820252016-09-27T16:06:00.000-07:002017-03-05T11:56:36.022-08:00An Autumn Trek in Arctic Sweden: The Kungsleden Trail from Saltoloukta to Kvikkjokk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In the far reaches of <st1:place w:st="on">Northern Europe</st1:place>
there is a land of cold rushing rivers, vast forests and snow-capped mountains.
A wild and timeless land where huge herds of reindeer roam and the Northern Lights
electrify star-studded skies. This land is called Sápmi, ancient homeland of
the People of the Sun and Wind, the indigenous Sámi Nation, who are also known
as Laplanders. We are planning to trek along part of the Kungsleden (King’s)
Trail in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Sweden</st1:country-region>’s <st1:place w:st="on">Arctic</st1:place>. This runs from Abisko in the north to Hemavan in
the south, crossing 425 km of <st1:place w:st="on">Europe</st1:place>’s last
remaining wilderness, including the Laponia World Heritage Site, inscribed on the UNESCO World Heritage List in 1996. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPLeSTrczt53lf4swXs7Qz9NqwqTDxDuMz4YsbkH5UKpVU1GmY6XPCwLPv0oLJOjajM0YyfNWSVL27OapKmZsoHFSX2h8FoW_lLoYSKIZ1_M_OA9SkFvk14q_o8rJ2Coh-W3yV5_hWt287/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPLeSTrczt53lf4swXs7Qz9NqwqTDxDuMz4YsbkH5UKpVU1GmY6XPCwLPv0oLJOjajM0YyfNWSVL27OapKmZsoHFSX2h8FoW_lLoYSKIZ1_M_OA9SkFvk14q_o8rJ2Coh-W3yV5_hWt287/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the Saltoluokta Fjällstation</td></tr>
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The middle section we are going to to traverse, from Saltoluokta to Kvikkjokk
is about 85 km, and includes three lake crossings which should take us around five
days. We have chosen early-September for three main reasons: firstly, the
colours of the Arctic autumn are fantastic; secondly, the route will be less
crowded with other trekkers; thirdly and most importantly, there will be few,
if any, mosquitoes and midges which plague the Arctic summer, as we discovered
to our cost last year in <st1:place w:st="on">Greenland</st1:place>!<br />
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<b><span style="color: #990000;">Getting to our start point: the Saltoluokta Fjällstation</span><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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We begin our journey in Kiruna, a sprawling mining settlement
cheek by jowl with the iron ore workings that gave rise to it. There are
regular SAS flights from here to <st1:city w:st="on">Stockholm</st1:city> and daily
connecting flights to <st1:city w:st="on">Dublin</st1:city>,
and, as we got a good deal on the flights and wanted to visit the world’s
deepest iron ore mine, we flew to Kiruna rather than Gällivare which is much
closer to the start point of our trek. The Svenska Turistföreningen’s (Swedish
Tourist Board or STF) Malmfältens Folkhögskola on the outskirts of town offers
excellent double rooms in small, self contained units, with the option of a hearty
buffet breakfast. It’s a good idea to become STF members while here (about 45
euro for a family per annum), as you will get a decent discount on your stay,
and also at other mountain stations, huts, hostels and on boats operated by the STF,
which we plan to use during our trip. </div>
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Downtown Kiruna is a ten minute walk away where there are a
number of good eateries and bars, and a fabulous wooden church in the form of a
Sámi house, voted <st1:country-region w:st="on">Sweden</st1:country-region>’s
most beautiful public building. Particular mention must be made to the <i>Bishop’s Arms</i>, an English-style pub
which was hosting a beer promotion which happily coincided with our visit! This
town also has several excellent outdoors shops where you can buy everything
from a pair of woollen pants or socks, to a survival knife or rifle. Here you
can stock up on camping gas or liquid fuel and packets of freeze-dried expedition
food.</div>
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This is a different kind of trip for us, as we will be
totally dependent on public transport and have travelled here with the bare
minimum needed, contained in our rucksacks and a small bag each. We have left
these small bags containing our travelling clothes at the hostel. Everything we
need for the next five days, including food, tent, sleeping bags and mats,
stove, cooking utensils, spare clothing, and a fair amount of photography equipment, are in our rucksacks which are
pretty heavy. </div>
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We board an early morning bus to Gällivare which departs
from Kiruna Bus Station opposite the Town Hall with its bizarre iron clock
tower. The bus doubles as a post van, which, with typical Scandinavian
efficiency, leaves bang on time. The bus is warm and comfortable and I doze for
most of the journey. We have a couple of hours wait at Gällivare for the next
bus that will take us to the quay at Kebnats where we will catch the STF boat to Saltoloukta, the start point of our Kungsleden trek. We make
ourselves comfortable inside the nearby railway station listening to the deep
rumble of the cars of iron ore pellets from the nearby mines passing by.</div>
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Again, the bus leaves smack on time and our journey takes us
through open, sparsely populated countryside of rolling forests which is flooded
with golden autumnal light and studded with deep blue lakes. I am delighted to
spot my first reindeer by the roadside. As we draw closer to Kebnats, hills and
mountains float into view, some still snow streaked. The STF ferry has just
arrived as our bus sweeps into the unmade car park, and is
disgorging its passengers which are mostly smiling, grungy backpackers who look
like they’re having the time of their lives.</div>
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I notice that the boat is flying an eye catching yet unfamiliar
flag of red, green, yellow and blue vertical stripes, intersected by a circle which
is half red and half blue. I guess correctly that this is the flag of the Sámi
nation, <st1:place w:st="on">Europe</st1:place>’s only recognised indigenous minority.
I later learn that the vertical colour stripes are commonly used
on gáktis - the traditional Sámi dress - and the circular motif is inspired
by the sun/moon symbol which appeared on the Sámi shamans’ ancient drums. The
blue half represents the moon and the red half, the sun. During the course of
our stay we will learn much more about the fascinating life of the Sámi people
as we pass through part of Sápmi, which stretches across areas of northern <st1:country-region w:st="on">Norway</st1:country-region>, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Sweden</st1:country-region>,
<st1:country-region w:st="on">Finland</st1:country-region> and the Kola
Peninsula in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Russia</st1:country-region>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEyKbbOseAmiH3EihVRoHBSVm-fg6uR7-VgY01NJo7XKdxkLHE3ftAClDOWAd-hh3ezTUFAasb4_33guAaCstTXgDxsj9xSou9Y9K8DV19jBOoWM1VOdDo-XeJts-CRaZzxnd4YO5PO5pz/s1600/Kungsleden-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEyKbbOseAmiH3EihVRoHBSVm-fg6uR7-VgY01NJo7XKdxkLHE3ftAClDOWAd-hh3ezTUFAasb4_33guAaCstTXgDxsj9xSou9Y9K8DV19jBOoWM1VOdDo-XeJts-CRaZzxnd4YO5PO5pz/s320/Kungsleden-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sámi flag on SKF boat</td></tr>
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We walk up the sun-bleached wooden decking to the boat and
clamber aboard (SKF members get a discount). There’s only a handful of other passengers
heading to Saltoluokta as it’s the fag-end of the season and many of the
mountain stations and huts will close within the next week or fortnight. As the
boat glides across the inky blue lake, from the sun-drenched bow we feast our
eyes on the majesty of the surrounding valley sweeping up to snow-dappled mountains.
The wind blowing over the surface of the lake lifts the water into little white
crested waves. I zip my jacket all the way up to my chin as there’s a definite
autumnal chill in the air. Indeed, the snow glistening on the nearby
mountaintops is a reminder that winter never quite released its icy grip on the
uplands this far north.</div>
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About ten minutes later we are disembarking at the wooden
jetty at Saltoluokta and begin the short walk up a wooded track leading to the STF Saltoluokta Fjällstation. Yellow birch leaves
are strewn on the path like confetti after a wedding, and the ground nearby is
flecked with blood red lingonberries, deep purple bilberries and scarlet fly
agaric mushrooms. The air is pleasantly pregnant with the heady, musty smell of
the woodland, and a great wave of excitement for our forthcoming adventure washes </div>
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over me.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSABNo7V6RSOw31UXCk1bH2IjBc46Uu4RHP9q3S0j9sjwCmzh0arCk1BZSXKDm5CpQvEBhsE6I9vfcBDSRLKbtm70RE8NbPuP34qBm6YxEcTTX53tZq8xwefeqwC2-AElXTxlfGo-RDew7/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSABNo7V6RSOw31UXCk1bH2IjBc46Uu4RHP9q3S0j9sjwCmzh0arCk1BZSXKDm5CpQvEBhsE6I9vfcBDSRLKbtm70RE8NbPuP34qBm6YxEcTTX53tZq8xwefeqwC2-AElXTxlfGo-RDew7/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jetty at Saltoluokta</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36klv4mDyxFCDWkozxDMWdKxJ5wKVjiBJ0Ju228PZYu4gGoYZjje8eWNF6RLcnmZ9_aEwpi7ahU5Do6D0j-HfzRcuZOSK4BQXlLILCdGyJBlLzUAZpfjQCmJ5sK7WumbZUAAzcR74EDCb/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36klv4mDyxFCDWkozxDMWdKxJ5wKVjiBJ0Ju228PZYu4gGoYZjje8eWNF6RLcnmZ9_aEwpi7ahU5Do6D0j-HfzRcuZOSK4BQXlLILCdGyJBlLzUAZpfjQCmJ5sK7WumbZUAAzcR74EDCb/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Psychedelic autumn colours</td></tr>
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The STF Saltoluokta
Fjällstation nestled amid the woods of a small Sámi settlement is unlike any
mountain hut I’ve ever stayed at. An historic wooden building dating from the
early twentieth century, it’s more like a high end lodge offering fine dining,
comfortable accommodation, a sauna, laundry facilities and a well-stocked shop selling a range of incredibly
useful items. Here you can buy various essentials (all in sensibly sized
quantities), from food and toiletries, to camping fuel and maps. In addition,
there is a wide range of outdoor clothing, footwear and equipment, all of which
are recognised brands.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFI7W_stXVbIa0m0Y0QFVfY0I7TVB7AzvH3rZr_sY8KxLpfyxPcywXeqiZytTqLe-IWC1O-cD3Zlz9BdYHbogHE_kUPqpD-M9pSZ_OF6y2dhsQDZV45KE4A2VVtSEG8uWrvODmewkp6O8Y/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFI7W_stXVbIa0m0Y0QFVfY0I7TVB7AzvH3rZr_sY8KxLpfyxPcywXeqiZytTqLe-IWC1O-cD3Zlz9BdYHbogHE_kUPqpD-M9pSZ_OF6y2dhsQDZV45KE4A2VVtSEG8uWrvODmewkp6O8Y/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Saltoluokta Fjällstation</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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After settling into our comfy two-bed dorm, we take lunch in
the elegant Scandinavian inspired dining room with its rustic wooden tables and
chairs. The food is distinctively Sámi and we ravenously demolish bowls of
sorrel soup with boiled eggs and rye bread. I’m delighted to see that the bar
has a respectable range of wines and spirits, and best of all, craft beer,
brewed by the Tjers Bryggeri from the Swedish Arctic. I am pleasantly surprised
to see their range includes a stout which turns out to be mouth wateringly
good!</div>
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As we are leaving the building, a man approaches us and says
he recognises us from our YouTube videos. We instantly recognise him too! He is
Irishman, Paul Sheils from Navan, whose films of his adventurous journeys
across <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Sarek</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">National Park </st1:placetype></st1:place>have drawn us here in the first place. I have no idea what
the odds might be for three people from <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region> meeting accidentally like
this in a hut in the middle of the Swedish Arctic, but it was a real pleasure
to chat to such an inspirational person in the flesh!</div>
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Dinner is a very grand affair indeed. We are called forward
by name and take our places at a candlelit table with four middle-aged Finnish
trekkers who speak impeccable English. They are also going to trek to Kvikkjokk
and have done so on numerous occasions, as the beauty and the splendour of the
landscape keeps calling them back. Opposite us is a group of young Swedish
friends who are celebrating the end of their trek in style with several bottles
of (very expensive) wine. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAL0ZXf-2cS4qzSXRpWesgRxjQsRzMXDaWCxK3Q__j6Ye5-Ra-s47SblNAEQbli2cXK0g3bbvrdOXjsx-bOaTCjNjOzH5juoMNOc3mGX4yRBu9A1mIgWopAuoYd1OkZKtGFRoedXNgchVw/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAL0ZXf-2cS4qzSXRpWesgRxjQsRzMXDaWCxK3Q__j6Ye5-Ra-s47SblNAEQbli2cXK0g3bbvrdOXjsx-bOaTCjNjOzH5juoMNOc3mGX4yRBu9A1mIgWopAuoYd1OkZKtGFRoedXNgchVw/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-10.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fine dining at the <span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Saltoluokta Fjällstation</span></td></tr>
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With candles twinkling on the wooden tables bathed in the
dying rays of the autumn sun streaming in through its windows, the atmosphere
in this historic building is enchanting. In addition, our table companions are charming
and the food, simply magnificent. Each course is announced by the chef with a
dramatic flourish and is a veritable feast. We leisurely polish off plates of
crisp seasonal salad; deep bowls of rich reindeer soup with a dressing of
magenta lingonberries and hunks of freshly baked rye bread; lightly smoked
Arctic char with roasted root vegetables, and a creamy white chocolate mousse
with a red berry coulis, followed by strong coffee. After dinner we sip fiery
local schnapps next to a roaring fire, which rounds off a truly memorable
evening. I can only imagine the sheer pleasure of arriving at this magnificent mountain
station after trekking the Kungsleden for days on end to find a clean and
comfortable bed, a hot shower, and gourmet food and drink! Belly full and feeling
comfortably numb from the schnapps, I fall asleep at once and sleep like a log.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="color: #990000;">Hitting the trail:
Saltoluokta to Sitojaure, 20km</span><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a hearty breakfast and having completed our
house-keeping duties as all guests are expected to do in STF accommodation, we
hit the well-signposted Kungsleden Trail which leads up through the birch woods
past the back of our dormitory. The day does not seem to hold much promise
weather-wise, but the overcast skies fail to dampen our spirits as we climb
steadily out of the woods to gain a vast and barren plateau across the alpine tundra which offers good walking. The landscape is moody and brooding; the
lakes shine like burnished steel, low cloud skirts the top of Sjäksjo mountain and
the cinnabar-red bilberry leaves seem to set the ground ablaze. In places where
the ground is boggy or rocky, we encounter wooden boardwalks, some of which
are in a poor state of repair. The bridges over leaping vodka clear streams are
worse, and some are quite dangerous. I traverse them with great trepidation, as
one slip could lead to a lower leg injury, or an unwelcome dunk in ice cold
water.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGgeLemRxCrCLfoLNw7cNoJ0uniJI7eXqEXhLCNMJ5rhqb4LPRUCkfcisnGGKEPNUN7uql8NSgHix9ZRisZZyWTgJBI4Ss0brHwX6oNOaR_StzDqrKnVsBi-Td1uIcV9qQjYJ-pNp0RTqH/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGgeLemRxCrCLfoLNw7cNoJ0uniJI7eXqEXhLCNMJ5rhqb4LPRUCkfcisnGGKEPNUN7uql8NSgHix9ZRisZZyWTgJBI4Ss0brHwX6oNOaR_StzDqrKnVsBi-Td1uIcV9qQjYJ-pNp0RTqH/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-14.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View towards Saltoluokta</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAy4U-fRpa0Mq4i_eeMxzB6hMKpJAbpaI1bsejmyKwAFDf0Gfktzoew5GhGLb5AuC26yHadpr9NZn27SbLZmHK6IEVtWdKXd1uRNP3X65_-9X8Erye0lkr_iqSDFlRXHKDqcruNVcpfYxa/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAy4U-fRpa0Mq4i_eeMxzB6hMKpJAbpaI1bsejmyKwAFDf0Gfktzoew5GhGLb5AuC26yHadpr9NZn27SbLZmHK6IEVtWdKXd1uRNP3X65_-9X8Erye0lkr_iqSDFlRXHKDqcruNVcpfYxa/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-15.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crossing the alpine tundra</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwO-lixtp62uh4R8aRrEP3dDuDzd9DzaWuDrUaO4uZdKeb1yk-FvdUIroEdWYeY8ua13QUZdoLk5II0YVT_5mnSDDL7jap5M8tjgBEE__F5grnR8UChRIT0uGL-my_sqa2wvNXFHPNMXiq/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwO-lixtp62uh4R8aRrEP3dDuDzd9DzaWuDrUaO4uZdKeb1yk-FvdUIroEdWYeY8ua13QUZdoLk5II0YVT_5mnSDDL7jap5M8tjgBEE__F5grnR8UChRIT0uGL-my_sqa2wvNXFHPNMXiq/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-16.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bad bridges!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Patches of Arctic bog cotton which have refused to give up
the ghost of summer past, trail their wind-ravaged ragged heads in the russet
bog, and the spindly branches of dwarf willow have encroached on the boardwalk in places and snatch at our ankles like demonic
fingers as we pass. After a few hours walking we see a triangular
building looming in the distance, the emergency shelter at Autsutjvagge above
the river valley of the same name, where we stop for lunch. We share the space
with a trio of elderly Swedes who are hiking to Saltoluokta from Sitojaure. Everyone we meet up
here is open, pleasant and friendly, eager to hear your stories and tell you
theirs, and all speak excellent English.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrMruTfe_i8F_A-BC69B1Wj9B_GCDstLzcdA_0ZhF0JLSgiAJqqSZ84EBhyphenhyphen8y5EHm_-5Xh7xtMW81LNpIN81IvchujtKIS5yKu4wCBr3EjC5bFQnNnoz_a4s3yC3yxjmIzq_I1ew9RErdF/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrMruTfe_i8F_A-BC69B1Wj9B_GCDstLzcdA_0ZhF0JLSgiAJqqSZ84EBhyphenhyphen8y5EHm_-5Xh7xtMW81LNpIN81IvchujtKIS5yKu4wCBr3EjC5bFQnNnoz_a4s3yC3yxjmIzq_I1ew9RErdF/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-17.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shelter at Autsutjvagge</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Refreshed, we push on towards Sitojaure. The wind has picked
up and squally showers pulsate in great curtains across the barren alpine tundra. Small groups of reindeer seem etched in monochrome, lost in the
enormity of the great undulating plateau. We trudge along for miles across this
great windswept wilderness, our packs feeling heavier with every step, before beginning
a steady descent back into woodland surrounding <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Sitojaure</st1:placename></st1:place>.
Walking into the wind all day has been tiring and we are both quite wet from
the persistent light rain, so we’re mightily glad to see the STF hut loom into
view amid a stand of birch trees above the lake’s edge. We announce our arrival
and the warden, a very jovial, chatty middle aged female, immediately offers us
a cosy two bed dorm for the night which Martin eagerly accepts!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9kGc7lf9wibURfWoCYvIZdsUrCwM8Sh9Ze6UFdhaffUJddxZSP77X4sOTwbhlVQxqXkLkl6NAmiWpkEPK0WBUtdp9w9x2cG_TJfgDYiWruvOnb9NfAd8zhrCjFqX4CQ_dzCeQi5J85PI9/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9kGc7lf9wibURfWoCYvIZdsUrCwM8Sh9Ze6UFdhaffUJddxZSP77X4sOTwbhlVQxqXkLkl6NAmiWpkEPK0WBUtdp9w9x2cG_TJfgDYiWruvOnb9NfAd8zhrCjFqX4CQ_dzCeQi5J85PI9/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-24.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The hut at Sitojaure</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is no shop at this hut, so he takes a 15 minute walk
to a nearby Sámi homestead which sells beer, dried fish and reindeer meat. Anna,
the lady who runs this informal 'shop', will be taking us the 4 km across the lake by boat
tomorrow as there is no STF service here. Because she and her family are
herding reindeer, regular boat transfers across the lake have now stopped,
meaning it’s necessary to pre-arrange transfers or you will be rowing yourself,
not something to be relished in ageing, poorly maintained boats. We have
instructions not to be late!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The hut, which we have to ourselves, has an excellent drying
room and as paying guests we are free to use the gas rings in the kitchen,
meaning you could get away with just carrying a small wood burning stove for
camping nights (we brought along our titanium Honey stove). In guttering
candlelight and warmed by the heat of a birch wood fire, I greedily wolf down a
packet of Expedition Foods Chicken Tikka Masala (we always use this brand when
trekking as their freeze-dried food is simply excellent). Darkness falls like a
shroud over the silvery lake and it’s monastery silent as I wander across to
the toilet block. Overhead, a few watery stars are struggling to put on a
performance, and I hope for better weather tomorrow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="color: #990000;">Sitojaure to Aktse,
14 km</span><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The morning dawns deadly still and only the peaks of the
nearest mountaintops are poking out above a dense layer of white mist which
lies many metres thick above the lake. It has barely a ripple on it as we hurry
along the rough and muddy track leading to the small jetty by Anna’s blue
weatherboard homestead amid the trees. She is hopping about impatiently waiting
our arrival and we can see she’s not best pleased that we are about 5 minutes
late! As we power our way across the lake, she warms to us as we ask her
questions about her family’s way of life as reindeer herders. Round faced with
glasses, she’s quite a character, chatty and amiable, and drives the motor boat round
submerged obstacles like a racing car! She has to be tough up here in the <st1:place w:st="on">Arctic</st1:place>, where women must shoulder all manner of chores.
Her family have about 4,000 head of reindeer (I cheekily asked her this, which
is about the same as her asking me how much money I have in the bank!), and in
the autumn they are rounded up to mark new calves and to select those for sale.
This is an arduous task undertaken on foot with the aid of a lasso. The people
of her commune own upwards of 15,000 reindeer, and each family knows their
animals by special cuts made on their ears. She and her family will spend until
late-November by the lake, then they will move down to Jokkmukk for the winter,
returning to the lake again in spring. Her children have a Swiss au pair who
helps with the family chores and takes her eldest son to and from school in
Tjåhke. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFe3DPE3TzPpQF1VwYeAkstowR7ooUP4OzCjhP0mtV_OrZT66taI9t7RBly0kcE_F2fNuuwu-DqwGNImnvd8IxcYb37WvjxYiDynBvhAH-wzxCAcQBMv-aXDMS3GXalhRTCJEvg0lOgKO9/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFe3DPE3TzPpQF1VwYeAkstowR7ooUP4OzCjhP0mtV_OrZT66taI9t7RBly0kcE_F2fNuuwu-DqwGNImnvd8IxcYb37WvjxYiDynBvhAH-wzxCAcQBMv-aXDMS3GXalhRTCJEvg0lOgKO9/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-23.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sitojaure</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna drops us at the jetty on the other side of the lake
where a party of four trekkers plead with her to take them across to Sitojaure.
She hesitates, then agrees, as the prospect of earning 800 krona (just over 80
euro) to add to the 400 we have just paid her, is too temping, even for a busy
reindeer herder! We set off up the gently rising terrain through a birch forest
interspersed with mountain ash for around 3 km before emerging into the rugged
alpine tundra. By now we have entered the cloud that has filled the whole
valley and the views of the mountains of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Sarek</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">National Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>
remain hidden from us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ground gets progressively steeper and we catch fleeting
glimpses of herds of reindeer moving about in the grey mist. Gaining the top of
a plateau at about 950 m high, we pause for lunch. Every so often the cloud lifts
and thins, revealing a watery sun that casts thin lances of light onto the vast
expanse of forest below. These beams trace kaleidoscopic patterns in dazzling
autumnal shades from vermilion through flame orange to canary yellow.<br />
<br />
With the
mist billowing like smoke around us, we cross the plateau passing great herds
of reindeer that dance across the landscape out of our way. Along the way we
encounter a homemade sign for Anna’s boat service – the only spot where it’s
possible to get a mobile phone signal to book your boat ride to Sitojaure! I
certainly wouldn’t fancy rowing the 4 km across the lake in an ageing wooden
boat! Moreover, if there is only one boat there, you have to row back
again towing another to replace the one you
have taken, and then return to Sitojaure, which would probably near kill anyone
not used to rowing 12 km! We have our mobile phones as well as a satellite
phone with us for any emergency calls, and we are also carrying a DeLorme InReach
satellite device which we can use to send an emergency distress signal, and to check the daily
weather forecast.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF7_AA_id4dHQ78pUP-UYDeC2ocPOTkO9NKS-X2_KeOK4aZ0339nCKSoHE0tHf9404YUpbufgfv7NlsswTAxVJP9S4BlCJts7YQ-Z72El8HKPGXmwJwhUtZDVyP3bp9Cl_OHzsNp0_xW6W/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF7_AA_id4dHQ78pUP-UYDeC2ocPOTkO9NKS-X2_KeOK4aZ0339nCKSoHE0tHf9404YUpbufgfv7NlsswTAxVJP9S4BlCJts7YQ-Z72El8HKPGXmwJwhUtZDVyP3bp9Cl_OHzsNp0_xW6W/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-29.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vast birch forests in their autumnal splendour</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg-mmNI32953BVM6MHEV8UiG7zBFONoL1dgGgoqjT_9AFzSuzupxhse44nwt4Tgmixrisis6TPCrkroV9HFwnBoeGf8pIRK4LfZY3c36F7bwZVnkh68yhdq1L3i7sA1V32WxpPcZ6QQHE5/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg-mmNI32953BVM6MHEV8UiG7zBFONoL1dgGgoqjT_9AFzSuzupxhse44nwt4Tgmixrisis6TPCrkroV9HFwnBoeGf8pIRK4LfZY3c36F7bwZVnkh68yhdq1L3i7sA1V32WxpPcZ6QQHE5/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-31.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reindeer flee into the mist</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHjqAozRn1ljMMwajW3tJgbvmnkTnWXtLZDLb2B7XMIS0etpj8EMQpIv5aI24H05P_KpdvH6FP-Gq2S1_jCenjAWsiyLI7x7KK8pyLJIiXOkUDK39VIcCV3mgvmMreq3C94XyCkSGMnyHI/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-99.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHjqAozRn1ljMMwajW3tJgbvmnkTnWXtLZDLb2B7XMIS0etpj8EMQpIv5aI24H05P_KpdvH6FP-Gq2S1_jCenjAWsiyLI7x7KK8pyLJIiXOkUDK39VIcCV3mgvmMreq3C94XyCkSGMnyHI/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-99.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our DeLorme InReach satellite device</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We learn to our disappointment that the weather for tomorrow
is absolutely vile, so we ditch our plans to climb to the summit of Skierfe
(1179m) where we had planned to camp out overnight. Skierfe has spectacular
views of Rapadalen (<st1:placename w:st="on">Rapa</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype>) with its braided river which leads into <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Sarek</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">National
Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Suppressing our disappointment, we begin to
descend steeply from the plateau towards the Aktse hut, past rutting reindeer.
As we emerge from the cloud, we are greeted by a stunning panorama of chalky
turquoise lakes set amid vast expanses of golden birch forest studded with the
emerald green spikes of conifer. Flowing from Rapadalen is a tangle of gleaming little rivers wriggling their way through olive green and russet bog that sweeps
majestically up to the imposing battleship grey walls of Tjahkelij mountain, atop
which a line of white cloud is moving like a slow tsunami. I catch my breath.
Even on a dull and overcast day, this landscape literally oozes magic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJsHgnQDzkJQ88TuaJ5LEohx-n4ic0t2eY7O9UOB7Ff036HiJcLeqH_5eTFBBAgxsiJsTgbycjIuQNJ2sL8VhwRao-gxHBhgs-h8eEgGBlqLoz5dNzVwLkv0fGxoM8WFsimc4hndpMjfqC/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-36.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJsHgnQDzkJQ88TuaJ5LEohx-n4ic0t2eY7O9UOB7Ff036HiJcLeqH_5eTFBBAgxsiJsTgbycjIuQNJ2sL8VhwRao-gxHBhgs-h8eEgGBlqLoz5dNzVwLkv0fGxoM8WFsimc4hndpMjfqC/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-36.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of many reindeer on this part of the route</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuEaBl7OMtOP5Ae2XD9BTIzrt9NwFGc9DIWuBUQJyaZIQb2dUFcvnsmRi2qs0AzCHQV1Tpo1lay0bh4cQXZR909uPK2zS9JYwbOYiP_wYMM6PQsOq30sWCHG0aooEQXvm5m8LLtqjKIGE8/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuEaBl7OMtOP5Ae2XD9BTIzrt9NwFGc9DIWuBUQJyaZIQb2dUFcvnsmRi2qs0AzCHQV1Tpo1lay0bh4cQXZR909uPK2zS9JYwbOYiP_wYMM6PQsOq30sWCHG0aooEQXvm5m8LLtqjKIGE8/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-32.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The magic of Rapadalen is undiminished even on a dull day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The descent to the hut through the forest is very steep over
slippery rocks and I’m glad to see a thin column of blue wood smoke rising from
the warden’s hut. We pay the 100 krona camping fee which gives us access to the
drying room, kitchen and communal areas, and select a sheltered level spot that
has grandstand views down into Rapadalen. As we are erecting the tent, Martin
spots a rodent of some description dashing between some shrubbery just metres
away. He tries to reassure me that it wasn’t a rat!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVqH16X09YYtzXeju4lY9man68-CVi-V5IudQ2S_IhednVrJMmLjnujjytytpG2_-CphfSZhWoMLX2LsD55rNofsgq9oyS97DBzcO-hBbkb0c16qXq0ZG4_eKEAqnk0zVzgLp5N0gTzCNC/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVqH16X09YYtzXeju4lY9man68-CVi-V5IudQ2S_IhednVrJMmLjnujjytytpG2_-CphfSZhWoMLX2LsD55rNofsgq9oyS97DBzcO-hBbkb0c16qXq0ZG4_eKEAqnk0zVzgLp5N0gTzCNC/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-40.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aktse Hut</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Being one of the main entry points into Sarek, this hut is far busier than the last and only offers 5 bed dorms, so I’m glad we have our tent.
We wander over to the warden’s hut to ask about the boat to cross Lake Laitaure
tomorrow and are told the STF one leaves at 9.00 am and will cost 100 krona.
There is a shop here, but being late in the season, it has sold out of things
like crisps, beer and chocolate bars! I notice that someone has collected a
large bag of fine looking mushrooms for their dinner, permissible under the law
of <i>Allemansrätten</i> (the everyman’s
right), which gives people the right to walk, cycle, ride, ski, and camp on any
non-private property, or land that is not restricted in any way, and to forage
for mushrooms, berries and wood for a camp fire.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dusk arrives and by degrees the camp falls silent, the
glowing shapes of the other trekkers’ tents fade and we clamber into our
sleeping bags. Inside the tent, I manage to dispatch the few resilient midges
who obviously haven’t yet cottoned on that it’s autumn, along with one of only two
mosquitoes I saw during the trek. We have insect repellent with us, and have
taken the precaution of treating all our trekking clothes with Permethrin, but
one pesky midge still managed to take a chunk out of my little finger!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We couldn’t have been dozing for very long when I am
suddenly awoken by a scratching noise. Martin heard it too, but on looking out
we can see nothing; everything is in the porch as we left it, and our packets
of freeze-dried food are well secured in bags inside the tent with us. Having recently
had my empty rucksack stolen from the porch of our tent by a cunning fox early
one morning in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Mourne</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountains</st1:placetype></st1:place>, and seeing the
destruction meted out to it by its razor sharp teeth, I am now super-sensitive
to nocturnal noises!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="color: #990000;">Aktse to Pårte, 21km</span><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I poke my head out of the tent to see a cloud inversion in
Rapadalen. The autumn trees are aflame with colour against the background of
cotton-soft whiteness. Only the grey top of Tjahkelij mountain is clear, rising
from the cloud like the great prow of a sinking battleship, but even this is
soon enveloped. The air is pregnant with rain as a low front stealthily approaches.
As we pack away the tent, Martin notices three rips in the groundsheet, made by
the claws of some unknown critter who was obviously after our food in the
night! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigsT005vyyx7_i8WmAH0A87pVES3EC1MCmpPE0bQhlE6k3MZJRH_ZcXoRS3U-WAzZ0EcsCCuZiM9QjePVtPzGS977uVGaWYTtSBNcqsflwhKgW04Gm-Sl-KKHu2dmRNynGVFgHhsUSzXAZ/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-39.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigsT005vyyx7_i8WmAH0A87pVES3EC1MCmpPE0bQhlE6k3MZJRH_ZcXoRS3U-WAzZ0EcsCCuZiM9QjePVtPzGS977uVGaWYTtSBNcqsflwhKgW04Gm-Sl-KKHu2dmRNynGVFgHhsUSzXAZ/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-39.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cloud inversion in Rapadalen</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We set off down through the campsite toward the lake where
we will catch the boat at 9.00 am. I shriek as a ball of black fur suddenly darts
across my path; it’s a miracle I didn’t step on it! It was a vole of some
description, undoubtedly the same species of rodent as Martin saw yesterday,
and whose destructive little claws are probably responsible for our damaged
groundsheet! We come to a fork in the track with a wooden signpost that points
out two different routes to the lake and the boats, which we find confusing. We
decide to take the more well-trodden pathway through a meadow past a Sámi hut
and along a board walk through a flat boggy area. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s gone nine when we arrive at a jetty to find the place
deserted and a motor boat still moored at the end of it. Wraith-like fingers of
mist hover above the lake’s mercury grey surface and the little waves lapping
at the shore only serve to heighten my unease. Expletives fill the air as the
awful realisation sinks in that we might be at the wrong jetty! Miss the boat
and we’ll either have to row the 3 km across the lake, or be stuck here another
day. Moreover, the forecast for tomorrow is for very high winds, meaning it’s
unlikely the boats will be able to operate. We could be delayed another day and
will not get back to Kiruna in time for our flight to <st1:city w:st="on">Stockholm</st1:city>. With my temper rising, I leave
Martin unsuccessfully trying to get through to another boat operator on our
satellite phone, and begin to march back to the fork in the track to make for
the other jetty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd_bb2xZEI53j5n8L7LfpmAZpKbs_Yl-F5rgQhONbnh1o7StmVAWxrkxYEzH6xjLIJg1SaPylV4zk9ZliqArc16tjKjO4vpN0ca4M8crY5nmUWJAf4z4a30y29_279Dq030mDxzHVzm2t6/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd_bb2xZEI53j5n8L7LfpmAZpKbs_Yl-F5rgQhONbnh1o7StmVAWxrkxYEzH6xjLIJg1SaPylV4zk9ZliqArc16tjKjO4vpN0ca4M8crY5nmUWJAf4z4a30y29_279Dq030mDxzHVzm2t6/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-43.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">STF jetty and motor boat in the early morning mist</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am thundering along the boardwalk when I meet the STF
warden who apologies for being late. To say I am relieved to see him is an
understatement! Minutes later we are donning lifejackets and heading out across
the misty lake. At the other side we see a white flag flying which means that
there are people ready to make the journey across to Aktse. As we disembark,
two middle-aged female trekkers take our place on the boat. Today will be a
long one, the first section passing through dense forests with few views which
leads onto another alpine tundra plateau. Rain is forecast by late-morning and
we want to cover as many kilometres as we can while it’s still dry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEtGMylKqUJAD5gGlIL2w4fVvlPyDegm9ta8645j4TbzZP7NJBb1nzAh3ttvQwiFYbDzeMYhTbGHvlYELWL70a8fJYaBNuw4b4kE__bJUVfVEreadQnKNmvUWcB6NfTReYIUffE2orVMz6/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEtGMylKqUJAD5gGlIL2w4fVvlPyDegm9ta8645j4TbzZP7NJBb1nzAh3ttvQwiFYbDzeMYhTbGHvlYELWL70a8fJYaBNuw4b4kE__bJUVfVEreadQnKNmvUWcB6NfTReYIUffE2orVMz6/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-49.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bridge over boggy water</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We pass through a gateway in a deer fence and begin a long
climb up through mixed forest. We cross bridges where ice cold streams foam and
dance over small rapids, and others where deep, dark and mysterious rivers flow
silently through the russet bog. Although the day is overcast and damp,
curiously the colour of everything seems to be amplified: the deep cushions of
dewy sphagnum moss give off a viridescent sheen; the fallen yellow birch leaves
littering the pathway are like tiny specks of mottled sunlight; the claret-red leaves
of bilberry resemble millions of drops of spilled wine; the crimson foliage of the mountain
ash sets the forest canopy ablaze. Rain-pearled berries, the fruits of the
forest, shine with surreal lucidity, each droplet a dazzling jewel, and the
gleaming leathery white flecked scarlet fly agaric mushrooms look as if they
have been lifted straight from the pages of a fairy story. The forest air is
loamy, pregnant with the sweet odour of decay.</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAJ7OHUQtVvAbz8pHEmnBg2211Q4GiPfJ8Kp_nEMa5iCtx6yl1x1X_IUStagIgdAXNA_EC0_jlVsPAD-WqNHgv9ak_lwfOhtrhTZmCT_AeFje_7t-p_qq-87RFN1Yh-oz9zI2misj1Xc4w/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAJ7OHUQtVvAbz8pHEmnBg2211Q4GiPfJ8Kp_nEMa5iCtx6yl1x1X_IUStagIgdAXNA_EC0_jlVsPAD-WqNHgv9ak_lwfOhtrhTZmCT_AeFje_7t-p_qq-87RFN1Yh-oz9zI2misj1Xc4w/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-50.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boardwalk floating in the bog!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZo7Ud_AsE-OCq9eqK3AcdJjBGZklu__FyDbHbqmngQhMQnMwnFWOo8FIutCN9csfMxEpEaAm_icwdmISkme2GPP6YJXAzcJxvUh8RqIfcPJCcTTPsLqRiZOBCrkByWnaRHNteqtLQadT0/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-52.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZo7Ud_AsE-OCq9eqK3AcdJjBGZklu__FyDbHbqmngQhMQnMwnFWOo8FIutCN9csfMxEpEaAm_icwdmISkme2GPP6YJXAzcJxvUh8RqIfcPJCcTTPsLqRiZOBCrkByWnaRHNteqtLQadT0/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-52.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Enchanting autumn colours</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD94RNzQ6UOY9SCC1jkMBRhSmmRBFUDkSne_75ua-9ZgK-McRSUmfIspf5eB-VNUN1Bkw6KNtu_vHLN4hXvl_TrhotvwtSbSNvrbKx2zksTUA6eM_UAkalM1BSKLrhGlX2dVvTTfWAhQjP/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-53.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD94RNzQ6UOY9SCC1jkMBRhSmmRBFUDkSne_75ua-9ZgK-McRSUmfIspf5eB-VNUN1Bkw6KNtu_vHLN4hXvl_TrhotvwtSbSNvrbKx2zksTUA6eM_UAkalM1BSKLrhGlX2dVvTTfWAhQjP/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-53.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ripe juicy bilberries</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having covered around 5 km, it begins to rain and the
remainder of the day is spent in full waterproofs. As we emerge from the forest
onto the alpine tundra plateau the visibility is down to around 20 metres. The
eerie forms of reindeer shift in and out of the mist as we plod along, heads
bent forward against the rain. The terrain offers good walking and at least we
have the wind at our backs. After several kilometres we drop down into a wooded
glade, startling several reindeer who melt away into the mist close to the
distinctive triangular form of an emergency shelter.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAjvT9t1G1Kbyjo_YanE_mWFp-wyPdU10cF-W_kEM-cekWr2KORWC6NN5FRbqI5GQ3quI7-bKJwOfS9Gff2_QzZyh5WggkmkZv4lGqECygF3X_eap_ZQMiyrTqiII-Tm_pjLcgvZiwgg6v/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-54.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAjvT9t1G1Kbyjo_YanE_mWFp-wyPdU10cF-W_kEM-cekWr2KORWC6NN5FRbqI5GQ3quI7-bKJwOfS9Gff2_QzZyh5WggkmkZv4lGqECygF3X_eap_ZQMiyrTqiII-Tm_pjLcgvZiwgg6v/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-54.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reindeer slink away into the mist</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a relief to get inside, dump our heavy packs and get
out of our wet waterproofs. We decide to fire up our stove for a hot lunch, having
on previous days just eaten a high calorie flapjack to save time. I’m feeling
cold and clammy and a slug of Talisker whiskey, brought earlier in the year on
our visit to Skye, immediately raises my spirits! After a spicy chicken korma
washed down with hot ginger tea, we’re ready for the off. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXij5OT_iBDFUom3OL2pJrEQrDdhss2iBFbluSvVKXXwhLpnFsG1al1BVH-wCB50fw9BWPBN6nv6pZndTWKCAUibyrtxz5kLxbwcaJ8d8okwdpdS6IackC1q_V6T7T3X-1T60UxMM-FHE0/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-55.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXij5OT_iBDFUom3OL2pJrEQrDdhss2iBFbluSvVKXXwhLpnFsG1al1BVH-wCB50fw9BWPBN6nv6pZndTWKCAUibyrtxz5kLxbwcaJ8d8okwdpdS6IackC1q_V6T7T3X-1T60UxMM-FHE0/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-55.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A brief reprieve from the rain</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The rain is falling
steadily from a graphite grey sky as we climb out of the glade and battle our
way over an exposed stretch of the route which takes us across a huge metal
bridge spanning a small gorge through which a fast flowing foaming river is roaring.
The metal frame of the bridge looming up suddenly in the mist looks like
something from a sci-fi film. The wind has changed direction and is now lashing
us side on with horizontal buckshot rain as we weave our way through a boulder
field, picking our way carefully over and around the slippery angular
rocks. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEistzYVDwD6OvIJAGJIIPueuqYJmm1iURFLMGVuT967RdlR4zjrX9hzArXTNe8EYmB03dZWOeomCwIWHcHvW412E36fAVAd5iHIca4IwCEvkFhjEx1fLZgsrH8MxJZOeEVRNDpHCUS7UQeJ/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEistzYVDwD6OvIJAGJIIPueuqYJmm1iURFLMGVuT967RdlR4zjrX9hzArXTNe8EYmB03dZWOeomCwIWHcHvW412E36fAVAd5iHIca4IwCEvkFhjEx1fLZgsrH8MxJZOeEVRNDpHCUS7UQeJ/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-56.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bridge over a raging Arctic river</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6HrfujAQCnlHj4os8ySzfiYwfg8uXME8KQUrtpgT28LQUkdXjJ08n0aT50hsW41gDI-8KxI9IVstVySETUVMLhA_Oiwbhyphenhyphen1jthaoJGmdGfkVsKjs5ckSO1c45y84XkoMZoqj-bWHn155t/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-57.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6HrfujAQCnlHj4os8ySzfiYwfg8uXME8KQUrtpgT28LQUkdXjJ08n0aT50hsW41gDI-8KxI9IVstVySETUVMLhA_Oiwbhyphenhyphen1jthaoJGmdGfkVsKjs5ckSO1c45y84XkoMZoqj-bWHn155t/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-57.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just when you think it can't get any worse, you hit a boulder field!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After what seems like an eternity, we begin to drop steeply
off the plateau back into dense forest. The pathway is rocky, muddy, waterlogged and
horrid, progress seems interminably slow, and I begin to count down the number
of kilometres left until we reach the Pårte Hut. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally we emerge from the forest which has mutated into a malevolent, dank
and shadowy twilight world where leaden raindrops fall with percussive
regularity on the hood of my Gore-Tex jacket. We now enter a stretch of bogland at the head of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Sjábttjakjávrre</st1:placename></st1:place>, one final
unwelcome obstacle. The
wooden boards soon peter out, rotted and drowned in the brackish water, and
it’s safer to walk on the bog than attempt to cross them. It’s sheer unbridled
joy to see the soft welcoming glow of a candle illuminating the window of the
warden’s hut. So far we are the only guests, and we commandeer a dorm to
ourselves, just before a couple of Swedish men arrive from Kvikkjokk soaked to
the gussets to claim the other. We rally round helping each other; I light candles
in the communal area and the wood burning stove in the drying room, Martin
tackles the one in the kitchen and the Swedes fetch water and boil it to make
hot drinks for everyone. It’s a relief to don dry clothing and climb into a
warm and welcoming bunk, where I sleep like a baby.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="color: #990000;">Pårte to Stuor Dáhtá,
5 km</span><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sunlight creeping in under the window blind casts a line of
golden light on the wooden floorboards of our dorm. I peek out behind the blind
to see a shower of gilded leaves fluttering past the window like confetti. The
wind is high, sending the nearby birch trees into a frenzy, tearing the golden
leaves from their silver boughs and scattering them in all directions. In the
not too distant future, these trees will stand on the bank of the ice covered lake, naked in
the frozen air, bereft of their autumnal gaiety. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ1mw883-RFF6Us7bG26e_C4JVL1Zaxzp_n30XMz5EwkdASsSfABLCLqfkLZreUdCxQXXkyGIK4rQpxrsAaNiqXIapA5Hl3LzeoeoEuRYSJAwz2thJj3CAqRnbPwyiu_2PCRhnInZrF9D0/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-77.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ1mw883-RFF6Us7bG26e_C4JVL1Zaxzp_n30XMz5EwkdASsSfABLCLqfkLZreUdCxQXXkyGIK4rQpxrsAaNiqXIapA5Hl3LzeoeoEuRYSJAwz2thJj3CAqRnbPwyiu_2PCRhnInZrF9D0/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-77.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maybe this is why Sweden's flag is blue and yellow?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What a difference a day makes! There isn’t a cloud in the cerulean blue sky, and after the gift of a sound night’s sleep I’m feeling good! All of our clothes and our boots have dried out overnight,
and, since we did not climb Skierfe as planned and have a spare day, we’re in no rush to get to Kvikkjokk, taking a
leisurely breakfast of porridge and numerous mugs of coffee. Our Swedish
hut-mates are in no rush either and we enjoy chatting to them and the hut
warden, a young willowy woman, who with her partner, has just one more week to
spend at Pårte before their 5 weeks of duty as wardens is complete, and the hut
closes for the season. Our hut chores complete, we set off mid-morning towards Kvikkjokk past the lake. The wind creates a swell that makes the reeds
fringing its shore sway and back and forth as if in a trance.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRu-smhqGocpG2hltLbC50xp5dnCMR-J-s-Vjuq7QlRxRLHBAifCwPuIe6iBcet9VOyBOwCegtzzPlk59hW2LXnPAjXuwufqJk44lCZr3HdtIfePWA2fxhHapme0ZDQfyLs1Oe3cerso-E/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-63.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRu-smhqGocpG2hltLbC50xp5dnCMR-J-s-Vjuq7QlRxRLHBAifCwPuIe6iBcet9VOyBOwCegtzzPlk59hW2LXnPAjXuwufqJk44lCZr3HdtIfePWA2fxhHapme0ZDQfyLs1Oe3cerso-E/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-63.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's a new dawn, it's a new day, and I'm feelin' good!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPPihfcr_cj8yialkz0bZoTJt4GNl5sZ_CRt-hGoDjM2598k7ifETZDd74YUFYNQ0DpqaUI5gExgL38TGmT0GB0m4k-MKNG-KcGK7UTaRuhSKigACYhGu-0MX52xfLT1WwoOLr7zqa-yMe/s1600/Kungsleden-1-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPPihfcr_cj8yialkz0bZoTJt4GNl5sZ_CRt-hGoDjM2598k7ifETZDd74YUFYNQ0DpqaUI5gExgL38TGmT0GB0m4k-MKNG-KcGK7UTaRuhSKigACYhGu-0MX52xfLT1WwoOLr7zqa-yMe/s320/Kungsleden-1-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lavatorial humour at the <span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Pårte Hut!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ZNO5uJZzlSakHNSzDXFFrudx_tgR_lifJ3iUqNTm9ALzMhBAY8S08UZt6EML9eNA2FIsX9mynXYmgWtru31dHO8KKEY1Q9gqVe-7DHE-qHms2vLIna4G69tQJJu0CP3BCicc38nLttZS/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-64.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ZNO5uJZzlSakHNSzDXFFrudx_tgR_lifJ3iUqNTm9ALzMhBAY8S08UZt6EML9eNA2FIsX9mynXYmgWtru31dHO8KKEY1Q9gqVe-7DHE-qHms2vLIna4G69tQJJu0CP3BCicc38nLttZS/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-64.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pårte Hut</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCku696Czf26O0zho8uMxisHxawzRE9IJdDH1V4P5yqMoa-UY7YJ2NTnlSuYcbHh6msVDvwea4wbmLtAs5W8bGYXtUWJd6amrXUczVltTLy15Oxsa3bjaJYKESDm28tgHSQzv0dkHjgrIt/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-61.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCku696Czf26O0zho8uMxisHxawzRE9IJdDH1V4P5yqMoa-UY7YJ2NTnlSuYcbHh6msVDvwea4wbmLtAs5W8bGYXtUWJd6amrXUczVltTLy15Oxsa3bjaJYKESDm28tgHSQzv0dkHjgrIt/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-61.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lake Sjábttjakjárre</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’re less than half an hour away from the hut when Martin,
who is a couple of metres in front of me, suddenly slips on one of the partially rotted
boardwalks and keels sideways into a pool of brackish water. Weighed down by
his 25 kilo pack, he finds it difficult to pull himself back up onto the
boardwalk. The warden bemoaned the fact that this section of the trail is
particularly badly maintained and in need of repair, and Martin is now soaked
down one side and has a sodden boot!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkDhcj8vO_FQzlP7f6VHed52p36mOvFCzEgwbLl0IIbuIZmiXfrqWl4h75IvbW2tPw7xCsR0MXT9xoBL-PvyI0z24DPOB821zSi3ABINEWjBYqFRsPcj4s8EtNcD_rukLQ07OSjHo_I8Yo/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-67.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkDhcj8vO_FQzlP7f6VHed52p36mOvFCzEgwbLl0IIbuIZmiXfrqWl4h75IvbW2tPw7xCsR0MXT9xoBL-PvyI0z24DPOB821zSi3ABINEWjBYqFRsPcj4s8EtNcD_rukLQ07OSjHo_I8Yo/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-67.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking the plank!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The route is rocky and most of the small bridges over
rushing streams are rickety and broken down. We pass a small lake, the reflections of the autumn trees shine like burnished bronze in its indigo-blue still and shallow sheltered reaches. A huge conical pile catches our
attention and we discover it to be an anthill made of dry pine needles. The
wind is so strong it is blowing the ants off as they go about their work! Past
a deer fence onto a broad russet-coloured plain, we spy the snow streaked
mountains of Vállevárre in the distance. We now encounter Stuor Dáhtá, a large
inky-blue lake surrounded by dense green and yellow forest overlooked by
Tjoallta, a rocky knoll. The wind has agitated the surface of the water into a
series of white crested waves that crash onto boulders ringing the shoreline in
showers of spray. With a day to spare, we immediately decide to find a camping spot
to spend the night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5ACCx0gPuhfaHDq7TlslvNV2ZaGBeXCFcCq-TU1HbRrv7RdFscRwpFqR7kvGdzU9-6Rzc_zJwj1MvYPouNwjITYvoxfKw1pEeoR-WTNh6lN0W9pzhnOzfPjYyE-FvSsEUqSZs_3DyrQWg/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-68.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5ACCx0gPuhfaHDq7TlslvNV2ZaGBeXCFcCq-TU1HbRrv7RdFscRwpFqR7kvGdzU9-6Rzc_zJwj1MvYPouNwjITYvoxfKw1pEeoR-WTNh6lN0W9pzhnOzfPjYyE-FvSsEUqSZs_3DyrQWg/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-68.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We select a lovely level site just above the lake. Judging
by the size of the fire ring, it has served as a camp for numerous other
people. We pitch the tent and begin to forage for some wind dried wood for our
evening campfire. Everything on the ground is absolutely sodden from
yesterday’s rain, and we range far and wide to select various sized pieces that
have caught in tree branches.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF2u0cU0mX6U3yoCxSprZv49dCYT3n6dULvOQX6QgtubL-ophC09Hw7XJlPezM7Kh5fOozRvEtfshvdSgSGP0SzRrPRfiO9YbPJWFzmSsh1b3cQB8YldJJz8ptT04VpDjDLE6VfXj9mjte/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-73.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF2u0cU0mX6U3yoCxSprZv49dCYT3n6dULvOQX6QgtubL-ophC09Hw7XJlPezM7Kh5fOozRvEtfshvdSgSGP0SzRrPRfiO9YbPJWFzmSsh1b3cQB8YldJJz8ptT04VpDjDLE6VfXj9mjte/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-73.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tent with a view</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We sit in the warm autumn sun listening to the crash of the
waves on the rocky shore, taking in the majesty of the surroundings. Set
against the deep blue of the lake, the autumn leaves of the fireweed look
remarkably like flames leaping into the air. Much altered in appearance from
its summer incarnation, I can finally see why this plant has got its name. The
nearby shrubs are peppered with the red and purple of bilberry, lingonberry and
juniper, and the low afternoon sun causes the forest leaves to burn with a
golden and flame orange intensity.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZJ26aBMWE95LtPPiZY19t4szTrDPZJzUAH096f5sxVrpN7NUjwnKUvfCgDUMZDwcrVa36gcTz9N_dFWU6iU-wROG0NKjqqpfqmqo359slIs67ymVo43Ggd8s2gqq9-bL0jfy5KTqK0ZN0/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-76.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZJ26aBMWE95LtPPiZY19t4szTrDPZJzUAH096f5sxVrpN7NUjwnKUvfCgDUMZDwcrVa36gcTz9N_dFWU6iU-wROG0NKjqqpfqmqo359slIs67ymVo43Ggd8s2gqq9-bL0jfy5KTqK0ZN0/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-76.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flame coloured Fireweed</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjrkhwZ3_1pKTqsuZIsoeSIN0R8wgkM8aAEN_awNOjQQdwUCowegh82L8MnnZcvzhCdt9MXRWpGRflB-pQc2vtAHrNnGJoCpzGcqjjCVnIJkZrvgXE4v7qBc3M6M1nj-oGkbXQGVqb025v/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-88.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjrkhwZ3_1pKTqsuZIsoeSIN0R8wgkM8aAEN_awNOjQQdwUCowegh82L8MnnZcvzhCdt9MXRWpGRflB-pQc2vtAHrNnGJoCpzGcqjjCVnIJkZrvgXE4v7qBc3M6M1nj-oGkbXQGVqb025v/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-88.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lingonberries</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By early evening the wind has fallen just as the weather
forecast predicted, and tonight will be dry and clear. Martin checks for
Northern Lights activity and we are delighted to learn that the auroral oval
should be over the Swedish Arctic. The sun is setting over the lake in a line
of burnished gold, the sky gradually darkens and one by one the stars peep out
of the firmament. Macaroni cheese, my favourite freeze-dried meal, is on the menu
tonight, and before it gets totally dark, I gather up a handful of birch bark
shavings and use my fire-steel to ignite these and a cotton wool pad smeared with Vaseline. Orange flames lick up through the pen sized twigs and larger pieces of wood that
let out a low hiss as the remaining moisture is driven from them. After some
gentle coaxing due to the dampness of the wood, we finally have a campfire warm
enough to sit around. An after dinner drink of whiskey is enjoyed before the
fire dies down and the chill stealthily emanating from the lake drives us
into our tent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-qUPAxLrZ8xd9sZ-CbKo_Btr61KK0_o1AmsBeCxtRR6mM8JAOv6DZ3mYif2kYHxKGN88Rw7xDMOZoxamH2aZOo2PvQcEl6MM2I3uHGDYPobG2YCIZKfcoyCStLWl2LLJWAJsZvOCf2W7/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-81.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-qUPAxLrZ8xd9sZ-CbKo_Btr61KK0_o1AmsBeCxtRR6mM8JAOv6DZ3mYif2kYHxKGN88Rw7xDMOZoxamH2aZOo2PvQcEl6MM2I3uHGDYPobG2YCIZKfcoyCStLWl2LLJWAJsZvOCf2W7/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-81.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Campfire's burning</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Martin goes out at around 11.00 pm to check for Northern
Lights activity. We’re in luck! I poke my head out of the tent to see the thin
vapour-like tendrils of light playing in the sky over the hill behind our tent.
Martin sets up the camera to capture our illuminated tent set against this shimmering
ethereal backdrop for a timelapse sequence. The results are fantastic. We have
committed to film a sight that will forever remain seared into our memory.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHmKzBee82khU21JZ5beT3TF3DtyVqVJD5mix2D6ujk6H0G1tQixhBq-IkfqnpKH1C5FAJPlF060xphbUuNyJ_BsRT4l7xLxUI9HHkGXSKqEbntQ_ePMWA8-yLIWdUesGRI_0wmF83O70P/s1600/northern+lights-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHmKzBee82khU21JZ5beT3TF3DtyVqVJD5mix2D6ujk6H0G1tQixhBq-IkfqnpKH1C5FAJPlF060xphbUuNyJ_BsRT4l7xLxUI9HHkGXSKqEbntQ_ePMWA8-yLIWdUesGRI_0wmF83O70P/s320/northern+lights-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Northern Lights electrify the skies over our tent</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="color: #990000;">Stuor Dáhtá to
Kvikkjokk, 11 km</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A grey dawn breaks. The lake is still and mirror flat. The mountains
with their piebald snow patches and the broken cloudy sky are reflected in its
mercury cool surface which is disturbed every so often by the faint concentric circles
of raindrops. We break camp, walking in the direction of the risen sun along a
rugged track that weaves its way along the lakeside until it climbs steeply
into a forest strewn with carpets of gold and crimson leaves. The track meanders
its way up and down over small hills and crosses several streams via rustic
wooden bridges and across boggy boardwalks. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2nca0DQ6VRwAeztH10m8XJgLYhHjXHnfi2ihtD5LHVSniC7cr6MGMlkIsj-JqRWCfhH_M2_LU5UB7w1MQ4wnxG15yGFjLG4JAW-wcSzN6m3KiH0ZpARInLLL59CyP2AggNQn4gt9Bn7-b/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-87.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2nca0DQ6VRwAeztH10m8XJgLYhHjXHnfi2ihtD5LHVSniC7cr6MGMlkIsj-JqRWCfhH_M2_LU5UB7w1MQ4wnxG15yGFjLG4JAW-wcSzN6m3KiH0ZpARInLLL59CyP2AggNQn4gt9Bn7-b/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-87.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cloud gradually breaks up and blue sky peeks from between
flour white cloud. A Siberian jay seems as uplifted by the weather’s change in
mood as we do, and puts on quite a performance in the tree canopy. We pass
though many greenish glades of conifer and birch where the shrubs are laden
with berries and the sun beams shining through the moisture laden air look misty and
enchanted. The trail is fairly quiet, but we do bump into few hikers going to the
the Pårte Hut, including a lone Swedish hiker who is walking the complete 425 km
of the Kungsleden Trail with his Siberian husky, which is carrying 7 kg of
dried food in ‘Ruffwear’ packs on her back!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUirPhYNyPj-vWDjCLXRY-xLZvkml4SzoZRGLXVzlCxFLEdBLyzcZKYQ4HpvHMTbMxDYF-U3_s0_sRCeqDPMO_1nsOtTpzLtJ4h05GSDY0toul-vIyZo9-Td2e02C8UzDZL_MsAJU0WZT6/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-93.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUirPhYNyPj-vWDjCLXRY-xLZvkml4SzoZRGLXVzlCxFLEdBLyzcZKYQ4HpvHMTbMxDYF-U3_s0_sRCeqDPMO_1nsOtTpzLtJ4h05GSDY0toul-vIyZo9-Td2e02C8UzDZL_MsAJU0WZT6/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-93.jpg" width="205" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The trail is well marked all the way</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a fork in the track which leads into <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Sarek</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">National Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
the path begins a gradual descent towards Kvikkjokk and gets progressively
rougher and stonier. We reach the Kvikkjokk Mountain Station in the early
afternoon and have to wait for the reception to open at 16:00. Meanwhile, we
check out the rapids on the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Gamajåhkå</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place> which provide a
spectacular backdrop to the hut which is perched high on the bank above. The roaring,
foaming white rapids look as if they’ve been lifted straight from the pages of <i>National
Geographic</i>.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglZDSCsUrSlrkGg1c07FC0TVhmF8dYszZaQQDap9Ip2WHZQBERpj7FhW0iaxsFOxzXIYxmcuPTDXJu1ce2hL9ORXd8IIXFAWgNZT3d65UIu5xu1G2myUWW4-2xfy6SLY4B06S_lWSmALwn/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-102.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglZDSCsUrSlrkGg1c07FC0TVhmF8dYszZaQQDap9Ip2WHZQBERpj7FhW0iaxsFOxzXIYxmcuPTDXJu1ce2hL9ORXd8IIXFAWgNZT3d65UIu5xu1G2myUWW4-2xfy6SLY4B06S_lWSmALwn/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-102.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kvikkjokk Fjällstation</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQmkNfS2mvXTCE3gT-HoYrq7h_Q4RqewjPKULikdqzhZxOASBSBDC61YTGRR33ILHAaJTwPaoFxupPhCVDFvhNQnANtcmBAuokeR2g7M2SpU1sRB7JJ8DyyivuizRiT4JTCX-xhC45AYJ/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-103.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQmkNfS2mvXTCE3gT-HoYrq7h_Q4RqewjPKULikdqzhZxOASBSBDC61YTGRR33ILHAaJTwPaoFxupPhCVDFvhNQnANtcmBAuokeR2g7M2SpU1sRB7JJ8DyyivuizRiT4JTCX-xhC45AYJ/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-103.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rapids on Gamajåhkå River</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The mountain station serves hot snacks to order, craft beers and offers
an <i>al a carte</i> evening menu in the restaurant. We chose the traditional and truly delicious Sámi
dish of <i>souvas</i> as a starter (salted and lightly smoked reindeer meat which is
thinly sliced and served with a creamy horseradish sauce on toast) followed by
elk (moose) patties with root vegetables. A hot shower and comfortable beds make for a pleasant
night’s sleep.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKFJM1ZfotKcCu2G3IhzIP3_PQKLowAeMpHGRFlOSQqQ0Edlmh2kDL7PXNzpo9igTSFpQnBzA53N1AtBvf6AE4b0cbmV6bJnqe24H1i7hU-Du2ubgwDxWyTA9mjjQjGDOVR_tYh_OgOoKr/s1600/souvas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKFJM1ZfotKcCu2G3IhzIP3_PQKLowAeMpHGRFlOSQqQ0Edlmh2kDL7PXNzpo9igTSFpQnBzA53N1AtBvf6AE4b0cbmV6bJnqe24H1i7hU-Du2ubgwDxWyTA9mjjQjGDOVR_tYh_OgOoKr/s320/souvas.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Souvas, salted and lightly smoked reindeer meat</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="color: #990000;">Reflections</span><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The following day we are up at stupid o’clock to catch the
5:30 am bus to Jokkmokk which leaves opposite the church. The morning is vault
still and pitch black as we board the bus, joining a few other backpackers. By
degrees the sky begins to lighten and we are treated to one of the most
magnificent dawns I have ever experienced. For ages the sky seems to be literally on fire,
glowing crimson red, through magenta to rose pink and mauve before the sun
erupts above the horizon bathing everything in soft golden light. The bus
suddenly slows and I am fortunate to spot a wolverine fleeing into the dark
forest nearby.</div>
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<br /></div>
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At Jokkmukk, we find a small café to have breakfast and to
kill some time before the Ájtte museum opens at 10.00 am. Devoted to the
history, culture and heritage of the Sámi nation, the museum is excellent and
is worth a few hours of anyone’s time. It certainly helped to put into context
all we had learned about the Sámi on our passage along the Kungsleden. After a hearty lunch, we catch onward busses to Gällivare and Kiruna. After greatly enjoying a dinner
of creamy elk stew in <i>Landströms Kök & Bar</i>, we retire to the <i>Bishop’s Arms</i> to
toast our amazing adventure over a glass of pitch black porter. We spend our last night back at the STF accommodation in Kiruna before our early afternoon flight to <st1:place w:st="on">Stockholm</st1:place>.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
As I sit on the plane back to <st1:city w:st="on">Dublin</st1:city>, I reflect on our trip. We have traversed
windswept rocky plateaus lashed by buckshot rain; glided over mirror still
lakes in little motor boats; stood over crystal clear rushing rivers; stumbled
upon silent valleys filled with cotton-soft cloud, and walked through
sun-drenched forests of birch ablaze with the colours of autumn. The landscape
is utterly beguiling, I have totally fallen under its spell and, like an
addict, I know that I simply must return again to this place where the sun,
rain and wind reign supreme and it feels simply good to be alive. Above all, I
appreciate that to wander through this majestic landscape is to understand, as
the Sámi people do, that the Earth does not belong to us, we belong to the
Earth. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrtvAgx2fD1xAmMvszOdaEcX3sygZDqwHnMGJNMWe0RjBK0tEXh1x9u_iU375day1lAja8BDITr02GGWTT2tA9q7O7ZDl59zA942jGbbPQyfrTQ5CfkV2eoukDYYvKBfuWD-rbbb1tSLHH/s1600/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-101.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrtvAgx2fD1xAmMvszOdaEcX3sygZDqwHnMGJNMWe0RjBK0tEXh1x9u_iU375day1lAja8BDITr02GGWTT2tA9q7O7ZDl59zA942jGbbPQyfrTQ5CfkV2eoukDYYvKBfuWD-rbbb1tSLHH/s320/Kungsleden+Sweden+Trek-101.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A truly regal route</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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For a video trailer of our journey see:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-mtpWBgFj6E </div>
Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-75091873491724995562016-08-09T11:08:00.000-07:002017-01-04T10:15:21.021-08:00Nature’s Colosseum: Exploring the Cirque de Gavarnie in the Pyrenees <div class="MsoNormal">
Our modest two starred <i>Hotel des Cimes</i> is a world away from the flea
ridden Pyrenean hostelries described by Hilaire Belloc who travelled through
the region at the turn of the twentieth century. It’s most certainly not the
Ritz, but our first floor en suite room has five star views up the valley to
the Cirque de Gavarnie, a vast glacial bowl gouged out of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Pyrenees</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountains</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
Probably the most famous cirque in the world, this 1,400 metres high and 890 metres
wide wonder described by Victor Hugo as ‘nature’s Colosseum’, lies within the
Pyrénées-Mont Perdu UNESCO World Heritage Site which straddles France and Spain.</div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5-d99RaLaNZYvnYrm1mIqhdehAtBrmBWeTFtz_ZQlY539p2YaqoMZR1-0ougL3PvsYrz8zCJbxz_ZExrJFYh-hW-ZsGROlq4aiidyiT-hd0A7n_Rfa0ULwwnU7lxQYMXjlPxrJqWtFphq/s1600/Gavarnie-22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5-d99RaLaNZYvnYrm1mIqhdehAtBrmBWeTFtz_ZQlY539p2YaqoMZR1-0ougL3PvsYrz8zCJbxz_ZExrJFYh-hW-ZsGROlq4aiidyiT-hd0A7n_Rfa0ULwwnU7lxQYMXjlPxrJqWtFphq/s320/Gavarnie-22.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Cirque de Gavarnie as seen from our hotel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The scenery is a true salve for the soul. Woodland sweeps up
to the yawning ice and snow frosted cirque with its wedding-veil waterfalls. In
the distance I can hear the roar of a river carrying away the snowmelt. Flower-scented
meadows that look as if they have been lifted from the pages of a fairy story
are dotted with crème caramel coloured cows dining on a <i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">salade verte </span></i>so
green as to be unbelievable. The melodic clanking of their bells is carried on
the wind drifting languidly across the landscape. A chattering alpine swift
chasing insects darts across the sky like a tossed away scythe in a mesmerising
dance of life and death. If it wasn't for the tacky souvenir shops, this place would be a paradise.</div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWEdrMQSp-GeUrmcAI5OXwnYkNdVGBAOtn7GS11iU2H2ETtFnsqWKhPIu80Ck97HTEudiPLliFs31hcpyVdWAsylIW6Pr3y-W8qEZq-PqVxXRy9X_iTkRqIK_c6yAsrzUrvWXdXxP3CyLY/s1600/Gavarnie-35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWEdrMQSp-GeUrmcAI5OXwnYkNdVGBAOtn7GS11iU2H2ETtFnsqWKhPIu80Ck97HTEudiPLliFs31hcpyVdWAsylIW6Pr3y-W8qEZq-PqVxXRy9X_iTkRqIK_c6yAsrzUrvWXdXxP3CyLY/s320/Gavarnie-35.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Tourist Route to the Cirque</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3VhNi1uKwGcYCknE9ILs117etTmculX_LKi0JYvAVCt1gPM53UkD6DURG7CLOq7qKF9tD_mJesjCRVFzjugRId9iwzlAlZ_oZ7yta74c5D_ov0qSzTIwLuiEeQrOgNPAL4Q9_DPIQxXJJ/s1600/Gavarnie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3VhNi1uKwGcYCknE9ILs117etTmculX_LKi0JYvAVCt1gPM53UkD6DURG7CLOq7qKF9tD_mJesjCRVFzjugRId9iwzlAlZ_oZ7yta74c5D_ov0qSzTIwLuiEeQrOgNPAL4Q9_DPIQxXJJ/s320/Gavarnie.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gavarnie, a rural idyll apart from the tacky tourist shops</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The sun slips down behind the nearby mountains plunging the
Cirque into shadow, and the horses that ply the route up to it are being led
away by their keeper for the night. In the distance the village church bell gently
tolls for evening prayers. Tomorrow we plan to explore ‘nature’s
Colosseum’, but thunderstorms are forecast for the area and with an abundance
of caution, we have revised our plans for a four day wild camping trek across the
mountains. </div>
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<br /></div>
<h3>
<o:p><span style="color: #990000;">A Trek Curtailed</span></o:p></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Brèche de Roland above Gavarnie marks
the border between <st1:country-region w:st="on">France</st1:country-region>
and <st1:country-region w:st="on">Spain;</st1:country-region> passing through this would have formed part of day one of our intended trek. Ascending to this point is
undoubtedly one of the best climbs in the <st1:place w:st="on">Pyrenees</st1:place>.
From the car park at Col de Tentes we stroll along an ancient mountain track
fringed with electric mauve thistles that meanders gently upwards to the Puerto
de Bujaruelo . Here we feast our eyes on a dragon’s back of snow capped
mountains sweeping up from the verdant Valle de Ordesa. This green and
pleasant land is <st1:country-region w:st="on">Spain</st1:country-region>
and we fill our lungs with the warm air wafting upwards, scented with the
unmistakable aroma of wild mountain thyme. Tiny butterflies float from one
flower head to another and a chorus of insects drone the lazy song of summer. The
percussive sound of fallen rock alerts us to the presence of a marmot busily
foraging for tubers and roots amid a nearby slope misty blue with gentian flowers. It lets out a loud whistle when we approach too close and darts
away into a chaotic tumble of rock. </div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3D-fhUHzw_ZIcgpVO1JqJx6ElUiBlWYjV8e1L21STFklWbn6-xI7NZeaHGXvyLztUkrlK5spqjXjValGry8EkN-DUfiBbVoll5j4kmbYkUQtro7cNKlqR69aLypH96-s6cR2sk4hT2lSr/s1600/Gavarnie-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3D-fhUHzw_ZIcgpVO1JqJx6ElUiBlWYjV8e1L21STFklWbn6-xI7NZeaHGXvyLztUkrlK5spqjXjValGry8EkN-DUfiBbVoll5j4kmbYkUQtro7cNKlqR69aLypH96-s6cR2sk4hT2lSr/s320/Gavarnie-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ordesa Valley from the Puerto de Bujaruela</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghn48nAWjMW7kYdxZSr9UKQ1Ln6xTR9mgL4R8lDc5qU13syk-iddqPOhQ6VGh3RBjfqXcJ_DouNyGUYo4yeJ8K7HXuHrBW83zpg60dAaBBn5nBVYzGVnvLop2HtruN6vzXgQ5a_EZZwnKF/s1600/Gavarnie-19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghn48nAWjMW7kYdxZSr9UKQ1Ln6xTR9mgL4R8lDc5qU13syk-iddqPOhQ6VGh3RBjfqXcJ_DouNyGUYo4yeJ8K7HXuHrBW83zpg60dAaBBn5nBVYzGVnvLop2HtruN6vzXgQ5a_EZZwnKF/s320/Gavarnie-19.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A cheeky Marmot</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We thread our way up a steep rocky path on the shoulder of a
mountain above the Vallée des Pouey D’Aspé opposite the Col de Tentes, towards
the first of several patches of dirty snow which bear the scars of countless
feet. The summer breeze carries the musical clank of sheep bells, the whisper
of dried grass, the distant cry of a vulture and the sound of water cascading
down over rock. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfpR3FNQoXVfIYLDd7j_46TAnVTCWp5gTzloFlWiuSD7YkL8SPnbgCQ2h6vhGwtF_k0_YGBSKIwkMCg9EcloBk8GXIR02gPGXEJQ3Mw8HLnGPdmhCmDCQ2QXra9I-VcLoeMOoKrtDS4TN1/s1600/Gavarnie-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfpR3FNQoXVfIYLDd7j_46TAnVTCWp5gTzloFlWiuSD7YkL8SPnbgCQ2h6vhGwtF_k0_YGBSKIwkMCg9EcloBk8GXIR02gPGXEJQ3Mw8HLnGPdmhCmDCQ2QXra9I-VcLoeMOoKrtDS4TN1/s320/Gavarnie-3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martin above the Vallée des Pouey D'Aspé</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgww0siovpQZbLd23810pHT0T4MSYpsX9HMdnZN770pWGg49CCtAvwVi1ASqsxfHfFOnVHCQJEgP3K0JFY4dOy6HPr7z8DozAFpC35Hi8eFskQTyk6zAcluygJyguxtu6bvdXEvQDZ0jlC5/s1600/Gavarnie-18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgww0siovpQZbLd23810pHT0T4MSYpsX9HMdnZN770pWGg49CCtAvwVi1ASqsxfHfFOnVHCQJEgP3K0JFY4dOy6HPr7z8DozAFpC35Hi8eFskQTyk6zAcluygJyguxtu6bvdXEvQDZ0jlC5/s320/Gavarnie-18.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The route to the Brèche de Roland</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8mb2SG8SkpynQgaYCkTdUxBA9kblKKfCPXDGJho_TRPTlycm8upgHtSXmGBGQH7reO8mPEmAloCRiONIP9y0OvfGdP0hnQmgQHRFluneX7L1jKSb_-VYWnkVJUB_0-aYJpx7ICLhl5JJk/s1600/Gavarnie-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8mb2SG8SkpynQgaYCkTdUxBA9kblKKfCPXDGJho_TRPTlycm8upgHtSXmGBGQH7reO8mPEmAloCRiONIP9y0OvfGdP0hnQmgQHRFluneX7L1jKSb_-VYWnkVJUB_0-aYJpx7ICLhl5JJk/s320/Gavarnie-4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A cairn along the way</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
We cross tumbling streams swollen with snow melt, cellophane clear water as cold as ice, and scramble up a rocky ridge which leads into another ravine with a noisy waterfall bouncing down the mountainside. The ground ahead is steep and snow choked for the time of year, and we stop to don our crampons.</div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZztuMYvsgtEVpImhlQQdLALaSFhI_0FZockZzgT80xbdnhjgyA6y63F5ILlrekzTgU_T3cDE94Q3VF7PuUfHwaxSM14-oI6EctjLk0K6o9fZ0x1h44g5tEso6dtiWvlLAY9G5M9N4WHe/s1600/Gavarnie-34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZztuMYvsgtEVpImhlQQdLALaSFhI_0FZockZzgT80xbdnhjgyA6y63F5ILlrekzTgU_T3cDE94Q3VF7PuUfHwaxSM14-oI6EctjLk0K6o9fZ0x1h44g5tEso6dtiWvlLAY9G5M9N4WHe/s320/Gavarnie-34.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unusually deep snow for the time of year lay on the route</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUXKWb_ZrIlMzKnqlNH942LCaWmE4J04nXFpZTX0vp2-5zK1uQgAx6W8dPw1NjjbWDY6jG45M1s1N5cIGTFal1O8KauuK-1sq6St3InNl_mOVGdky-RTKpPVw2Pzsan3npfJaiTh5qv0A5/s1600/Gavarnie-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUXKWb_ZrIlMzKnqlNH942LCaWmE4J04nXFpZTX0vp2-5zK1uQgAx6W8dPw1NjjbWDY6jG45M1s1N5cIGTFal1O8KauuK-1sq6St3InNl_mOVGdky-RTKpPVw2Pzsan3npfJaiTh5qv0A5/s320/Gavarnie-6.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The snow slopes were steep and slippery and crampons became necessary</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIZiB7yfpQHoHF7aIZn4IWsmFt01uMhjrMdfSEH70Qc0u7K6N9Svw9ED1zSD_Pvu_FAOYx4yl8OL25vSHuvusIlzL8azjYeOVj8_B5bFlk8nauu1oOyvQs2ZF9YRzYhiKGef1ct9LvU3ir/s1600/Gavarnie-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIZiB7yfpQHoHF7aIZn4IWsmFt01uMhjrMdfSEH70Qc0u7K6N9Svw9ED1zSD_Pvu_FAOYx4yl8OL25vSHuvusIlzL8azjYeOVj8_B5bFlk8nauu1oOyvQs2ZF9YRzYhiKGef1ct9LvU3ir/s320/Gavarnie-7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The route heading towards the waterfall</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The track passes close to the waterfall and is treacherous; chains that would help upward traction lie buried under feet of snow and the hot sun gives it the consistency of caster sugar. In places verglas smears naked
rock and the diamond dazzling treachery of snow on ice makes progress difficult. We can hear water gurgling beneath our boots and in
places have to carefully negotiate rivulets fleeing through melted runnels in the
compacted snow. We look on in horror as a man slips and slides 20 metres or so
down a steep snow slope. His <i>GoreTex</i> jacket sliding quickly over the icy surface lets out a menacing hiss. He has the presence of mind to use his walking pole as
a braking device, but his fall could have resulted in tragedy, and we wonder at
the stupidity of the number of people on the route without crampons or ice
axes, or even a pair of mountaineering or hiking boots.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXjV1VNTSbvPEDADMnBPOon5MF9rsxVh0wgTOAhPo3td1LiSrvt_Omlr_noJcjWjbiZrLsBdmoz9-rKOQKJBKHDMaG4TvbxVWOA3izRayMB8TkQamZrOnwrb-utMlsq06TGWPg6agl458X/s1600/Gavarnie-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXjV1VNTSbvPEDADMnBPOon5MF9rsxVh0wgTOAhPo3td1LiSrvt_Omlr_noJcjWjbiZrLsBdmoz9-rKOQKJBKHDMaG4TvbxVWOA3izRayMB8TkQamZrOnwrb-utMlsq06TGWPg6agl458X/s320/Gavarnie-9.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Route climbing past the waterfall</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7gAdtafR2rXxSn8AdOLiHmhxFK0tFLkPp3kSBaZOW022B2HTb8kV5wJvuc9d98Hvdiy4RQfIXV6dAF9E42qytD8bshYLn9CipSSsK7r7uUgiO0y7aWBVuVqlnsszLY7hS5LtyLiFJe6rd/s1600/Gavarnie-33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7gAdtafR2rXxSn8AdOLiHmhxFK0tFLkPp3kSBaZOW022B2HTb8kV5wJvuc9d98Hvdiy4RQfIXV6dAF9E42qytD8bshYLn9CipSSsK7r7uUgiO0y7aWBVuVqlnsszLY7hS5LtyLiFJe6rd/s320/Gavarnie-33.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The waterfall</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The waterfall now behind us, we come to a large glacial
bowl where the snow has drifted feet deep. Great layers of sedimentary rock have
been upended in the sheer cliffs that erupt through the snow like the bones of
the Earth picked bare. The sun is high and commanding a sky that bears no
menace, but the heat is tremendous. A steep climb out of the bowl brings us to a
rocky ridge where we finally catch sight of the <i>Refuge des Sarradets</i> (2,587 meters)
which takes its name from the col of that name located below it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXR448KA0vdP2wrLTTFKViOFVm4bzcQsm0hUNEvrlWRl22U-EoGPD-WMgCTeb2EfxgcGKkMn3aacsawReoy4b6CKbxyNWg3CU2kBoWsik9fADl_eWRG9VTRWLKkUj9pVkE55_Y_Ao8c9Wj/s1600/Gavarnie-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXR448KA0vdP2wrLTTFKViOFVm4bzcQsm0hUNEvrlWRl22U-EoGPD-WMgCTeb2EfxgcGKkMn3aacsawReoy4b6CKbxyNWg3CU2kBoWsik9fADl_eWRG9VTRWLKkUj9pVkE55_Y_Ao8c9Wj/s320/Gavarnie-11.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ridge above the Refuge des Sarradets (2,587 m)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Currently undergoing renovation, a large crane hovers over
the chalet style stone built building with a sloping roof which is perched on
an outcrop of rock commanding jaw dropping views. Below we can see the top of the vast
Cirque de Gavarnie, the layers of rock surrounding it squeezed and contorted into
swirls and whorls as if modelled in plasticine. Waterfalls tumble over its side
like curtains of white silk and snow covered scree slopes above it sweep up to
a monumental wall of rock that soars into the sky, broken by the Brèche de
Roland, a massive gap-toothed void in the cirque’s rocky smile.<br />
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyOqBpYo6RG5JeRc9kOtBg0hy4470zmqSRpPOu4km3s4QAKH9raNMi8Zswyd3gNKZNmvjbUP-IIZzjomQvxud34xzbxAFiRG4ah3DZtws2juQYtphfGRfI7wJwOS_92QdasRXH6VVIRMxD/s1600/Gavarnie-32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyOqBpYo6RG5JeRc9kOtBg0hy4470zmqSRpPOu4km3s4QAKH9raNMi8Zswyd3gNKZNmvjbUP-IIZzjomQvxud34xzbxAFiRG4ah3DZtws2juQYtphfGRfI7wJwOS_92QdasRXH6VVIRMxD/s320/Gavarnie-32.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Refuge des Sarradets is currently undergoing renovation</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9PHmaG2VARweEjKECDeN1xBNdJFbOw68hESaUXuIbrry61spDT3gWmIsKvTwV_hVhNbflTC4iBp-odF-nVFy8FK8Bw31SZI-npRVNvPySZcXjJ3RpfcnD2yFJyZ48gPuwLMB5YgV5Q4q/s1600/Gavarnie-10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9PHmaG2VARweEjKECDeN1xBNdJFbOw68hESaUXuIbrry61spDT3gWmIsKvTwV_hVhNbflTC4iBp-odF-nVFy8FK8Bw31SZI-npRVNvPySZcXjJ3RpfcnD2yFJyZ48gPuwLMB5YgV5Q4q/s320/Gavarnie-10.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Incredible rock formations above the Cirque de Gavarnie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2F5hJFOXqZynvAi7F47jPXAPZgbBy2GgBHvMBsU8svFeqD72z1T2UvZxVXr9hhZA1upkZbT8ZlhnElNOxv5Rk2f14MIgE8cm3uyXI7tp6QuOE0btBd7qyuwjHC9Ef14Wowt1uLUdPTQDq/s1600/Roland+de+Breche.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2F5hJFOXqZynvAi7F47jPXAPZgbBy2GgBHvMBsU8svFeqD72z1T2UvZxVXr9hhZA1upkZbT8ZlhnElNOxv5Rk2f14MIgE8cm3uyXI7tp6QuOE0btBd7qyuwjHC9Ef14Wowt1uLUdPTQDq/s320/Roland+de+Breche.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The incredible Brèche de Roland</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
A steep and at times slippery climb down through compacted snow from the ridge brings
us to the refuge. We find a shady spot on the balcony facing the Cirque and
fire up our stove for lunch. Ample entertainment is provided by a couple of
cheeky alpine choughs who await any chance to make off with our food, and
several marmots who are busy foraging amid the rocks below the refuge. In the
distance we watch a sole lammergeyer riding the thermals above the Pic de
Sarradets. It’s a thrill to spot this bird with a wingspan of over two metres. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpU_cJtJdAOd7O_0i57W9ylJfwS8RMzU5zPFQzIH1rTqeZRohTaQmiB40IJrnot6yweZ518WCfJ3g9c-wbBMbx2qUKwr4s1Q6CVl7IuNE6BGtmSu5k8HZ0H1UZaBUfUt-NCU5jcfWqACHR/s1600/Gavarnie-13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpU_cJtJdAOd7O_0i57W9ylJfwS8RMzU5zPFQzIH1rTqeZRohTaQmiB40IJrnot6yweZ518WCfJ3g9c-wbBMbx2qUKwr4s1Q6CVl7IuNE6BGtmSu5k8HZ0H1UZaBUfUt-NCU5jcfWqACHR/s320/Gavarnie-13.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A cheeky alpine chough looking to steal our lunch!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lunch complete, we climb up the snow covered slope towards
the Brèche de Roland, stopping to plunge a couple of artisanal beers deep into
the snow to chill. The sun beats down relentlessly from an azure blue sky, broken by a few white clouds boiling up beyond the gap in the cliffs marking the gateway
to <st1:country-region w:st="on">Spain, which </st1:country-region>would have featured on our now abandoned trek. Yet the storm that
is forecast seems an absurdity on a day such as this, and we wonder whether we should
have thrown caution to the wind and done the trek after all. We sip our much
awaited cool beers below the remnants of the Glacier de la Brèche, which, like
many European glaciers, has all but vanished, after which we head back down to the
Col de Tentes without incident.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtCbPdwcJGJrSdKvjUBrTy7kFln3LczWKC-iwwZDn7esw3ZRLLLLvSe43HBvAWjQOcgKHzLrnUgmuHFoOEA8WZOmBFAH98anor-bsyohJSm9BJDm0g9phJPgMmRtK5bM-whEPYq4V65k2S/s1600/Gavarnie-12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtCbPdwcJGJrSdKvjUBrTy7kFln3LczWKC-iwwZDn7esw3ZRLLLLvSe43HBvAWjQOcgKHzLrnUgmuHFoOEA8WZOmBFAH98anor-bsyohJSm9BJDm0g9phJPgMmRtK5bM-whEPYq4V65k2S/s320/Gavarnie-12.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Brèche de Roland, gateway to Spain</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghmo4FF4TjfMEO5Suad05vwkXc0xlk5jvZynM_uaURX6w12TEuHqk3xpJBwZvRYyNSElGXnvyvORLODe-3I0IQMXZvwchni1oVcnQBPLRP-fIZbgNGH_Vvkkg4xKXUSGXQPP0mHH9NmDnf/s1600/Gavarnie-14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghmo4FF4TjfMEO5Suad05vwkXc0xlk5jvZynM_uaURX6w12TEuHqk3xpJBwZvRYyNSElGXnvyvORLODe-3I0IQMXZvwchni1oVcnQBPLRP-fIZbgNGH_Vvkkg4xKXUSGXQPP0mHH9NmDnf/s320/Gavarnie-14.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Life's necessities, a cool craft beer!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back in Gavarine, the moonless night sky is juniper-purple and
the bejeweled arch of the Milky Way soars across the heavens as we leave <i>Les Cascades</i> restaurant.
Despite the fact that a fine four course French meal is a far better deal than
a packet of freeze dried food, we curse the fact that we are not sat in our
tent high in the mountains on such a still and perfect night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKHTGOZeTntwGL1C5uYzCKSba53J7hyphenhyphendDkj5jnFX9-Cb716QXxF-qierjXPCt-jDRZ-lUxkBbuTYFvqfexOKvVT7FaLZQx0WqaErDeG7uS7Wp3NesfcSCp_rtkJeFZcDSEXiHwGH1NxsZ1/s1600/Gavarnie-20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKHTGOZeTntwGL1C5uYzCKSba53J7hyphenhyphendDkj5jnFX9-Cb716QXxF-qierjXPCt-jDRZ-lUxkBbuTYFvqfexOKvVT7FaLZQx0WqaErDeG7uS7Wp3NesfcSCp_rtkJeFZcDSEXiHwGH1NxsZ1/s320/Gavarnie-20.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View looking back to the ridge above the refuge</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdg4pWGnEhxEF1r-Sz-1w8INopi1_jnf6FK0f7v8Tm6SQYeiIKIcF3yKr6m4HvJMm3XoV-vz7o7eKEMWPPk3RRddEHE6p7ApiGwUqIbsJVfDUfetLiSKD9o7ZA7Ty6ySgCe2Fizh1_YowI/s1600/Gavarnie-23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdg4pWGnEhxEF1r-Sz-1w8INopi1_jnf6FK0f7v8Tm6SQYeiIKIcF3yKr6m4HvJMm3XoV-vz7o7eKEMWPPk3RRddEHE6p7ApiGwUqIbsJVfDUfetLiSKD9o7ZA7Ty6ySgCe2Fizh1_YowI/s320/Gavarnie-23.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Milky Way soaring above Gavarnie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<h2>
</h2>
<h3>
<span style="color: #990000;">Nature's Colosseum and a Storm to Remember</span></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day dawns hot and sunny with not a cloud in the
cerulean blue sky. But with the inclement weather forecast still lurking in the back of our
minds, we decide to take the 'easy' tourist route up to the Cirque de Gavarnie. We
join a throng of other walkers heading up the gravel path above the bank of the rushing chalky turquoise waters of the Gave
de Gavarnie, our nostrils assaulted by the smell of horse dung! The route crosses an ancient stone bridge and past meadows starred
with thousands of colourful flowers before it climbs gently, threading its way
through mixed woodland which offers some reprieve from the relentless heat of
the sun.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdVULfSZVItrGkbs13aXeT6vmvF_nbZi0f28isPwiSaZbhyphenhyphenQwK7KcCvHxxTkLONiLwerMIAYHjQ1-sy_eiXbiikpMPfZP_NCz7QNW7Vh2kzq6RMe2DlAjTyOB2UveVBCuSU5ye3rOfqhyd/s1600/Gavarnie-24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdVULfSZVItrGkbs13aXeT6vmvF_nbZi0f28isPwiSaZbhyphenhyphenQwK7KcCvHxxTkLONiLwerMIAYHjQ1-sy_eiXbiikpMPfZP_NCz7QNW7Vh2kzq6RMe2DlAjTyOB2UveVBCuSU5ye3rOfqhyd/s320/Gavarnie-24.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ancient stone bridge across the Gave de Gavarnie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We emerge from the woodland, blinking in the fierce sunlight, to a wondrous view of a riparian scene fit to grace the lid of any
chocolate box. The Gave de Gavarnie flows languidly through the broad gravel strewn
bottom of the valley. In places it has braided, its turquoise channels
meandering round small islands studded with trees. Ahead the view is dominated
by the massive cirque that looms behind the interlocking spurs of the surrounding
mountains which sweep down dramatically to the valley floor. Snow and ice gleam
on the towering cliffs above the cirque and the enormity of the landscape makes
me feel very small indeed.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHtkdBVPagP-puTq0raM26ompT0SScL6L8oJR02zviv9V0gSV_ix1rDKywWV2L0KFJoqVFzCFKhnXOHVJWxZhfSF9gQCVEfRZjpQ5DI7wLRa5NEXqOzD6nIJLrtGB70ElGQq5ZHuNaTeNg/s1600/Gavarnie-25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHtkdBVPagP-puTq0raM26ompT0SScL6L8oJR02zviv9V0gSV_ix1rDKywWV2L0KFJoqVFzCFKhnXOHVJWxZhfSF9gQCVEfRZjpQ5DI7wLRa5NEXqOzD6nIJLrtGB70ElGQq5ZHuNaTeNg/s320/Gavarnie-25.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A riparian scene fit to grace the lid of any box of chocolates!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The path now descends to meet the gravelly valley bottom
before beginning to climb steeply towards the Cirque itself. The route is busy
with walkers, many red faced and sweating profusely in the stifling humidity as they lean on their large
wooden staffs, while a family of four clatters by on horses hired from <st1:place w:st="on">Gavarnie</st1:place>. After walking for about an hour, we arrive at <i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">l'hôtellerie du Cirque</span></i>, a large nineteenth century building seated below the entrance to the towering glacial bowl. This old hotel, somewhat faded in
its majesty, now functions only as a restaurant in the high season, but it
offers probably one of the finest glacial views in the world.</div>
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Weeping waterfalls topple from atop vertical cliffs fringed
with show and ice below a neon-blue sky streaked with angel-white cloud. <st1:place w:st="on">France</st1:place>’s
highest waterfall plunges 422 metres in a display of misty majesty. A veritable honey
trap, this site attracts about a million tourists each year. It’s
not hard to see why; it’s a sight to send poets and artists into raptures. We
delight in sitting on the shady terrace of the restaurant to refresh ourselves
with some cool beers and to partake in an <i>al fresco</i> lunch of local meats and
cheeses while admiring the view.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWhRvAsXOeAWnAM-asmKMHWLNPwXnOShCVlD_X7DCSs07zrvGbW84_Gh2-D5A8alKu-K784epvRscSaXXA2MPvdVnvpvl8rZe52daf-n8HROsIJaJEgRyH0thPQGvkMYoq3aCqYm7hzFu0/s1600/Beer+in+Gavarnie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWhRvAsXOeAWnAM-asmKMHWLNPwXnOShCVlD_X7DCSs07zrvGbW84_Gh2-D5A8alKu-K784epvRscSaXXA2MPvdVnvpvl8rZe52daf-n8HROsIJaJEgRyH0thPQGvkMYoq3aCqYm7hzFu0/s320/Beer+in+Gavarnie.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nothing like a cool beer on a hot day, and what a view!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Too many beers later, we begin the climb up into the Cirque.
Most people don’t walk much farther than the <i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">l'hôtellerie</span></i>, and after half an hour
we find ourselves alone to commune with the majesty of the glacial landscape. The
rocky ground is misty with meadow flowers and the passage of our feet kicks up the heady aroma of
wild thyme. The towering cliffs, their strata laid bare like a layer cake,
appear to be bearing down on us, while soft white clouds sail above their snow streaked
heights. The only sound is the constant roar of the waterfalls, the clanking of sheep bells and the periodic chirping
of crickets. We might have been the only two people left in the world, so deep is
our sense of solitude.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwspQT4vQ-fjFQQB2GfheeqZG72UBADCIMX4WxX4XuRanNvLJjLAwNKSAzRCLLPhkDp3-coHlp-Vm3S-rcIOaMuwLFHRaGzlxtLkff2sFwOHdslH7pf-LSY_snQxemozzkN9iq8ToYji6L/s1600/Gavarnie-27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwspQT4vQ-fjFQQB2GfheeqZG72UBADCIMX4WxX4XuRanNvLJjLAwNKSAzRCLLPhkDp3-coHlp-Vm3S-rcIOaMuwLFHRaGzlxtLkff2sFwOHdslH7pf-LSY_snQxemozzkN9iq8ToYji6L/s320/Gavarnie-27.jpg" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Gave de Gavarnie above the Hotellerie de Cirque</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiOYdwsqzDkzIOJLCmyz_xGoaKlGaGKJXOlzxnAnwHmTawa8RQWng2-4ukkyhVSUBeJ6mYk9Gj9bZf03wsvXVCZtlDWr6YO7NqNWqtXlsnQzPLS_R64HYibrh-2QqVdEcT3JDB5-Q_X0ts/s1600/Gavarnie-28.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiOYdwsqzDkzIOJLCmyz_xGoaKlGaGKJXOlzxnAnwHmTawa8RQWng2-4ukkyhVSUBeJ6mYk9Gj9bZf03wsvXVCZtlDWr6YO7NqNWqtXlsnQzPLS_R64HYibrh-2QqVdEcT3JDB5-Q_X0ts/s320/Gavarnie-28.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martin in the Cirque de Gavarnie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU3X_vKDXKVy6FwcDjsQGv0aOD_ioQCAUMOUEBJzANfSN4hK9_3271oUlyiqzCrJCzr12S2d6FKrlolKZgrwWieSRPyXCef-Zbv0hUKU_8QMC5f2Z0D6XeVt6tp7w0LSLycW6XcNWDjT7Z/s1600/Gavarnie-29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU3X_vKDXKVy6FwcDjsQGv0aOD_ioQCAUMOUEBJzANfSN4hK9_3271oUlyiqzCrJCzr12S2d6FKrlolKZgrwWieSRPyXCef-Zbv0hUKU_8QMC5f2Z0D6XeVt6tp7w0LSLycW6XcNWDjT7Z/s320/Gavarnie-29.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waterfall cascading down into the entrance of the Cirque de Gavarnie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidC1GYxiojwTBrju0zVCH-aOfMF6yQQGsBNWwKP59QlRfc0iQfNAVAXFuji0F-vyRf0hX_ZhBx4NJSol2nQm5QK4a5rlkNA9rtxhm5tuTvynH-SPX2NP7EMwATSCeofFtYEyZaKo1VYcUk/s1600/Gavarnie-30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidC1GYxiojwTBrju0zVCH-aOfMF6yQQGsBNWwKP59QlRfc0iQfNAVAXFuji0F-vyRf0hX_ZhBx4NJSol2nQm5QK4a5rlkNA9rtxhm5tuTvynH-SPX2NP7EMwATSCeofFtYEyZaKo1VYcUk/s320/Gavarnie-30.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">France's highest waterfall in the Cirque de Gavarnie</td></tr>
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But the sky is changing. The flour-white pillows of cloud mutate into something dark and vengeful, boiling masses coiling and writhing in
shades of battleship grey and tar black that swallow the sun. We quickly turn
tail towards <i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">l'hôtellerie </span></i>where the waiters are hurriedly packing away the terrace umbrellas. The faint chlorine whiff of ozone sends us
fleeing past it in a tide of other walkers hoping to reach <st1:place w:st="on">Gavarnie</st1:place>
before the storm breaks. This turns out to be a forlorn hope. As we stop to don our
waterproof jackets, the wind begins to gust, rising to a frenzy as a
thunderclap rends the air and echoes round the valley. All at once the
thrumming clouds begin to spit out hailstones and torrential rain. Large
puddles appear almost instantaneously and connect rapidly to form a mass of
swirling water which floods the track now dancing with spray.</div>
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The hailstones are huge, the size and shape of <i>Trebor</i> soft
mints, and send people shrieking for cover under a canopy of pine trees close
to the track. Tall and upright, they line up around us like silent sentinels as
sheet lightning illuminates their blackened trunks and the earth seems to
shudder with each clap of thunder. With no sign of the storm abating, and
knowing it’s not safe to shelter under trees, we decide to push on. Through
buckshot rain and hailstones that deliver a vicious sting as they strike, we brave
the unending downpour past battered meadows reeking with petrichor, and eventually
arrive back at our hotel absolutely soaked to the gussets.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieOTq23NTvePsVHeZX9gHtYem-wVrfuSAYe_Pv1KDijkw0XbgUdjpjicTLhJDvg5qMvEKWAvqBktx8-IscpcWvhRJQH12h5wOwMEbS-M2VsaMC_9sPvKFoeoAnSV152kKTL-xRJBwliCUL/s1600/Hail+in+Gavarnie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieOTq23NTvePsVHeZX9gHtYem-wVrfuSAYe_Pv1KDijkw0XbgUdjpjicTLhJDvg5qMvEKWAvqBktx8-IscpcWvhRJQH12h5wOwMEbS-M2VsaMC_9sPvKFoeoAnSV152kKTL-xRJBwliCUL/s320/Hail+in+Gavarnie.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These really hurt when they fell from the sky!</td></tr>
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The next morning dawns still and damp. A watery sun is shining feebly through columns of slowly moving mist, casting weak lances of light
across wind beaten meadows where steam is rising steadily from the
grass. The vaporous tendrils drift upwards to join a bank of thickening grey cloud lying
angrily atop the cirque. The atmosphere is pregnant with rain. A distant rumble
of thunder confirms that the forecast was accurate after all; the weather has
set in, the walking is over and reluctantly, we decide to move on to Asturias in <st1:place w:st="on">Northern Spain</st1:place>. </div>
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Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-16098996831717491052016-07-29T13:15:00.009-07:002016-12-30T05:33:07.336-08:00‘España Verde’: Spain’s Green and Pleasant Wonderland<div class="MsoNormal">
The cliffs of craggy limestone tower over our convertible as
we power our way up through a deep gorge carved by the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Cares</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place>
that is taking us into the heart of the Picos de Europa National Park, a 647 square
kilometre wonderland that straddles Asturias, Cantabria and Castile and León. This
does not feel like <st1:country-region w:st="on">Spain</st1:country-region>,
that parched and arid land so beloved of British tourists who head to the
southern <i>costas</i> in their droves each summer to soak up the Mediterranean sun,
for everything here is green. A thousand different shades of green...<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqPxZ2LPUrj4h08wthRKZ4esbKGP2UtAAjWyFaxgF5DLoU2tm1_T13YcpjCgpiR5W4Igh1IuxyA6d7fkI_7kdpMNB7s1dRDRk_olGPqZMDqdOx9a__x5buu-2nAi0KHWEgtmAoVBK4BSuI/s1600/Mr+Saab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqPxZ2LPUrj4h08wthRKZ4esbKGP2UtAAjWyFaxgF5DLoU2tm1_T13YcpjCgpiR5W4Igh1IuxyA6d7fkI_7kdpMNB7s1dRDRk_olGPqZMDqdOx9a__x5buu-2nAi0KHWEgtmAoVBK4BSuI/s320/Mr+Saab.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Lush vegetation blankets this part of northern <st1:country-region w:st="on">Spain</st1:country-region>. Its
golden sandy beaches and craggy cliffs are pounded by the surf rolling in from the cool <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic Ocean</st1:place> and forests of chestnut, hazel, holm
and sessile oaks, birch and beech, sweep up towards the towering limestone
monoliths, spires and peaks that crown the Picos de Europa National Park. Many of these are twice as
high as anything in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Britain</st1:country-region>
or <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region>.
Above the forests, dazzling displays of flora await discovery in lush alpine meadows
threaded together by ancient mule paths and transhumance routes, used for
driving cattle to summer pastures.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqYkeDQWSIjghX9qLCbyL-KMQgAL5EP9JIBRY-DAh9yN1DWQxfAffmMYvbsI8l_nvIGg4laxboRKDar5_vr6LP7TAlTJzAJK9ypLAOzEyXC_PFeqYieRX4vMIu0KfvCpBy4R1D8AmAgZzG/s1600/20160719-072734-P9210064-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqYkeDQWSIjghX9qLCbyL-KMQgAL5EP9JIBRY-DAh9yN1DWQxfAffmMYvbsI8l_nvIGg4laxboRKDar5_vr6LP7TAlTJzAJK9ypLAOzEyXC_PFeqYieRX4vMIu0KfvCpBy4R1D8AmAgZzG/s320/20160719-072734-P9210064-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQslwkWuC7Z_oIFazL4Xt6OiuHwyyn89EVug5PeGr4Ag9qEXzzMkHy9qVw5QcIkBnhbY8jC6dtTZ2l2zgzmRfeyhthhVyCfAiPS1WVUoVwlq-W5F3ty0aAQFXHZtp_JT2wu5CSCsffJZWu/s1600/20160708-170015-P9180190.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQslwkWuC7Z_oIFazL4Xt6OiuHwyyn89EVug5PeGr4Ag9qEXzzMkHy9qVw5QcIkBnhbY8jC6dtTZ2l2zgzmRfeyhthhVyCfAiPS1WVUoVwlq-W5F3ty0aAQFXHZtp_JT2wu5CSCsffJZWu/s320/20160708-170015-P9180190.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Here crème caramel coloured cows graze and small
shepherds’ huts with red ceramic roof tiles dot the landscape. The area is home
to vultures, wolves, wildcats, chamois, wild boar and Cantabrian brown bears.
Foodies will be sent into salivating raptures, for this region is famed for its
variety of cheeses and its cider brewed from indigenous crab-apples; its
gastronomy ranges from wholesome home cooked fare served in rustic <i>siderias</i>, to
avant-garde Michelin starred restaurants. Culture vultures will delight in
visiting ancient settlements with pre-Romanesque architecture recognised
by UNESCO as of World Heritage, in a part of Christian Spain never conquered by
the Moors. </div>
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It’s early July and everything feels inexplicably fresh here,
for the proximity to the Atlantic creates a temperate climate more akin to that
of the <st1:place w:st="on">British Isles</st1:place>. Summers are mild and numerous
days see cloud and mist creep over the tops of the dramatic limestone peaks like
a slow tsunami. This region has long been known to wealthy <i>madrileños</i> who head
north to holiday homes from the dusty arid plains of the south, for here they
are ensured a welcome respite from the searing summer heat. But foreign
travellers have yet to discover the Picos de Europa in large numbers.<br />
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<h3>
<b><i><span style="color: #990000;">Europe’s Patagonia</span></i></b></h3>
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We base ourselves at the small settlement of Arenas de Cabrales which lies at the foot of a winding road
that weaves its way deep into the <i>Macizo Central</i>, the middle of three massifs
that comprise the Picos which form part of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Cantabrian</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place>
range. The alpine scenery is face-slappingly good. At the top of a series of hairpin bends which peter out at Camarmeña,
a cluster of small stone houses with rust red ceramic tiled roofs and a tiny
church clinging like limpets to the side of a mountain, is one of the park’s
most famous viewpoints. In front of us, and crowning the top of a smoky blue
triangle of land wedged between the steep sides of the Bulnes gorge, is
Europe’s version of <st1:place w:st="on">Patagonia</st1:place>. </div>
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Known as <i>Picu Urriellu</i>
in Asturian, the 2,519 metre high Naranjo de Bulnes, a towering chimney of grey
white Palaeozoic limestone soaring above its spiky neighbours, is on every
Spanish rock climber’s wish list. Thin veils of cloud in the valley below churn slowly
in the early evening heat and the weakening rays of the sun bathe the mountain
in a honey coloured glow. <i>Naranjo</i> means
‘orange tree’ in Spanish, the mountain so named as it turns this colour at
sunset. A further scenic viewpoint just down the road in Póo de Cabrales offers
yet another jaw dropping opportunity to gaze upon this climber's dreamscape. From a spot above the tiny village of Asiego, the entire <i>Macizo Central</i> is laid before us in a stunning panorama, and we gaze in wonderment as the setting sun
turns the peaks apricot, then pink through to chalky mauve.<br />
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<h3>
<b><i><span style="color: #990000;">Whatever the Weather</span></i></b></h3>
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There are days when we awake to a strange luminescent
grey cloud that envelops everything down in the valleys making it feel decidedly cool
and clammy. This is quite normal in the Picos and we are advised to head up
into the mountains. As we climb the narrow winding road above the Rio Duje en
route to the mountain <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">village</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename w:st="on">Sotres</st1:placename></st1:place>, the churning cloud
thins, becomes almost translucent and the watery disc of the sun shimmers
through it. The cloud suddenly melts away, the fortress-like cliffs of the Peña
de Maín float into view and the smoky blue peaks of Los Urrieles still streaked
with snow, soar into an impossibly blue sky. </div>
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In the dead of the night, we escape the ethereal mist
shrouding Arenas de Cabrales to return to a favourite spot above Sotres, where
we are treated to a moonless sky literally stuffed full of stars. The Milky Way
arches majestically overhead, and the spiky peaks of the <i>Macizo Central</i> etched
against the purple heavens are bathed in silvery starlight. <br />
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By day the sun is hot on our backs as we wander along old shepherds’
tracks that criss-cross the mountains, stopping to admire the astonishing
variety of flora in every colour imaginable. The silence is broken only by the
constant chorus of insects and the melodic clanging of bells that are tied
around the necks of cattle, sheep and horses that use the high alpine pastures
for summer grazing. The hillsides are dotted with clusters of small stone built
red tiled huts, many now gaunt empty shells, which once served as the summer
homes of shepherds. Transhumance is still practised in the mountains and some
farming methods abandoned elsewhere cling on here. One afternoon
we pass an elderly man with a weather-beaten face who has a scythe slung across
his shoulder. He is heading out to mow a meadow in a scene straight out of the
middle ages. However, as elsewhere, modernity is creeping in and the old ways
are vanishing. Down in the valleys, we see numerous square granaries typical of
the region. Named <i>hórreos</i> they are built
of wood with red tiled pyramid hipped roofs and are raised several feet off the ground by a
series of four stone pillars capped with staddle stones to prevent vermin
getting in. These are now disused and many are sadly falling into dilapidation.</div>
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It goes without saying that such a lush green land does not flourish without a healthy rainfall, and we experience days when thick grey cloud rolls in from the <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic</st1:place> and the mountaintops don’t reveal themselves at
all. Rainwater pours in tiny rivulets off the roof tiles of the small cottages in the
high mountain villages of Tresviso and Sotres and mist blows forlornly along
their narrow cobbled streets. The weather front eventually moves away, the clouds lift and the mood of
the mountains changes instantly. But there
is something utterly beguiling about the way the cloud boils and rumbles
through the mountain passes on rainy days; everything is wet and dazzles with a
lurid light, and the air is heavy with the scent of wood smoke.</div>
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<h3>
<b><i><span style="color: #990000;">Glorious Gastronomy</span></i></b></h3>
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On such days, the region’s signature dish, <i>fabada</i>, a rich stew of broad beans, black pudding, cured pork shoulder and sausage, provides warming hearty
comfort to offset the damp and chilly atmosphere. The <i>Peña Castil</i> is an eatery in the mountain <st1:placetype w:st="on">village</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Sotres</st1:placename>
where a 3 course <i>menu <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">del</st1:place></st1:state> dia</i> will set you back just 12 euro. This
tiny place, which doubles as a <i>hotel rural</i>,
oozes rustic charm with its dark wooden furnishings and rustic earthenware
crockery, and it’s packed to the rafters with gregarious Spanish tourists, creating
quite a bonhomie. A rich earthy <i>fabada</i>,
followed by slow cooked, unbelievably tender and fragrantly seasoned wild boar stew, topped off with a desert of creamy junket drizzled with local honey, all washed down with a rather
fine Rioja, is memorable. And not just due to the quality of the local fare and
the price, but because the young chef appears at our table to ask if we have enjoyed our meal and to thank us for our custom.<br />
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There are no shortage of excellent tapas bars and
restaurants to sample yet more local dishes, including <i>fabes con amasueles</i>, a hearty stew of broad beans simmered with a
pinch of saffron and fresh clams; ox hot pot; braised kid goat or roasted
roe deer delicately flavoured with aromatic wild mountain herbs, and <i>cachopo </i>which resembles a schnitzel and
is made of three kinds of meat sandwiched between two types of local cheese
which is dipped in egg, bread crumbed then fried in olive oil until golden
brown. It certainly packs a terrific calorific punch and I never succeed in
clearing my plate! Indeed, Spain's a country not really renowned for its cheese, so with
over 40 types produced from cow's, sheep's and goat's milk, or even a combination
of all three, Asturias has been dubbed <i>el
pais de los quesos</i> (the land of cheeses). Several have been granted Denomination
of Origin status including the piquant <i>cabrales</i>,
a pungent blue variety that is aged in caves close to where we are staying.</div>
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With a love of fine dining, we push the boat out and take
lunch at the 2* Michelin restaurant, <i>Casa
Marcial</i> in Arriondas, whose chef, Nacho Manzano, has acquired quite a
reputation for serving fine contemporary <i>cocina
asturiana</i>. We plonked for the <i>menú tradicional</i>: eight courses of taste and visual sensation, washed down
with a fine white Rioja. From the hors-d'œuvre which included crispy seaweed drizzled
with lemon mayonnaise served on a lichen covered branch and a feather light corn
soufflé with smoked sardine and onions; limpets and seaweeds in cider cream;
red mullet cooked in salt on a hot rock at our table; to the most famous of all Asturian deserts, a dreamy rice pudding, the meal was exquisite. Coffee, local liqueur and sweetmeats taken on
the sunny terrace of the restaurant, rounds off a highly relaxing and memorable
afternoon.<br />
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<st1:country-region w:st="on">Asturias</st1:country-region>
is not a wine producing region: here cider reigns supreme. As even the smallest
village seems to have a bar selling <i>sidra</i>,
while the larger towns have <i>siderias</i>,
establishments specially devoted to this local beverage, you cannot fail to try
it while here. It comes in a wine sized bottle and consuming it is something of
a ritual performed with much aplomb in the <i>siderias</i>.
In the pretty town of <st1:place w:st="on">Cangas de Onís</st1:place>,
I watch as a waiter uncorks a bottle, then with a dramatic flourish, holds it
aloft over his head and pours the amber coloured liquid <i>escanciada</i> into a narrow glass in his hand. It’s a skill he has
obviously honed and he hardly spills a drop. The ritual of ‘throwing’ the <i>sidra</i> not only aerates it, but enhances
its bouquet and natural carbonation. He hands the glass containing a couple of
inches of liquid to Martin with the instruction to gulp it down in one. Any
dregs are thrown out of the glass and onto the floor. Martin enjoys the
refreshing taste, but not being much of a fan of apples, I find it to be
astringently dry and the sour taste isn’t to my liking.<br />
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<h3>
<b><i><span style="color: #990000;">Getting Around</span></i></b></h3>
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A network of mountain roads, the major routes paved and well
maintained, now run between many of the mountain villages which are also connected by a plethora of ancient transhumance trails, making multi day treks imminently doable. A network of dirt roads take you deeper into the
mountains and are handy for trekkers walking to the remoter
trailheads created by ancient shepherds. The dirt tracks are a legacy of the
significant lead and zinc mining industry in the Picos and were originally used
to transport ore by teams of oxen. The industry dates back to Roman times and only
ceased in the latter decades of the twentieth century. </div>
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High in the mountains are the visible remains of several
abandoned mines, including the Mazarrasa, Evangelista and <st1:place w:st="on">Providence</st1:place>. The former of the three is sited
in the Vegas de Andara area at a height of around 1,800 metres and the refugio there
is actually a former mine building. Nearby is an open <i>socavón</i> (access tunnel) named the <i>Canal de los Vacas</i> (the cows’ channel) a name that should
come as no surprise in cattle country such as this! A rail emerges from its
dark interior upon which a battered rusting wagon is abandoned. <br />
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The refugio’s caretaker shows us several mineral specimens
he’s collected from the area which include galena, blende (famed for its translucency), fluorite and
cinnabar. We head off to a valley above the refugio that once harboured a large
lake, the bed of which was accidentally holed by a mining company which has
virtually drained it. Betrayed now by a marshy discoloured patch, the cliffs
above it are pock marked with open <i>socavóns</i>
and early lode back workings, while above its former shore is evidence of
nineteenth century dressing activities and most interesting of all, a number of
dark, dank troglodyte dwellings which may or may not predate the mining
activities. Working here would have been quite challenging, especially in
winter, and local lore has it that some of the miners actually slept in the
galleries to keep warm. The whole place is wreathed in veils of white mist
during our visit and I find the atmosphere to be rather unnerving.<br />
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Maintaining access to some of the remoter mountain villages
with dwindling populations is a struggle, but the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">village</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Bulnes, virtually</st1:placename></st1:place>
hanging off the hillside at the top of a subsidiary branch of the main Cares
Gorge, has found a solution. Connected since 2001 by a funicular railway that runs for some
2 km up through the mountain, this remarkable feat of engineering
ensures that the 30 odd permanent inhabitants of this picturesque mountain
village, formerly reachable only on foot or mule, remains accessible all year
round. The journey takes around 7 minutes and is free to inhabitants, while
visitors must pay over 22 euro return to use it.</div>
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On the southern side of the central massif,
and 23 km west of the charming market town of Potes, Fuente De’s main
attraction is its cable-car, which in less than five minutes whisks you up to
1,800 metres. Get there early as waiting times to ascend and descend are long. Here
the <i>mattoral </i>characterised by brilliant
swathes of bright yellow broom (<i>Echinospartum horridum) </i>and occasional bursts of purple heather, makes
way for a maze of limestone pavement that harbours an astounding variety of
alpine and Mediterranean flowers. This in turn gives way to a lunar landscape
of broken, shattered rock sweeping up to jagged snow streaked peaks of grey
limestone glaring luridly in the bright sunshine. Griffon vultures whirl on the
thermals above them, eyed nervously by alpine choughs that frequent the refugio
near the cable car station. Far below in a blue haze, the rich green pastures of Cantabria stretch out into infinity.<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000;">Garganta de Cares</span></i></b></h3>
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We breakfast on the sunny terrace of a small hotel built
right above the Cares River in Puente Poncebos which is the starting point for
the trek up the Garganta de Cares (the Throat of the Cares), one of the most popular walking routes (the
GR-202) within the Picos de Europa. The route up this gorge ends at Posada de Valdeón in
León, but we plan to go only as far as the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">village</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Caín</st1:placename></st1:place>
and then walk back, making it a round trip of over 26 km.</div>
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The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Cares</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place> has sliced and
scoured its way through the limestone of the heart of the Picos range, splitting
it into its central and western massifs, creating a chasm well over a kilometre
deep in places. The river has been partially diverted to generate
hydroelectricity and the route follows a water channel chiselled into the
hillside, a real feat of engineering. The narrow track we will follow is the
old access way servicing the channel and it is literally hewn out of the
vertiginous cliff face and tunnelled through solid rock. It’s certainly no
place for those who suffer from vertigo, and care must be taken at all times as
there is no fencing to prevent what would certainly be a fatal fall if one were
to slip. <br />
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The track climbs steeply from Poncebos taking us high above
the gorge, which at this point is still quite wide. The river lies coiled far
below like a silvery serpent. It’s an airless morning and the heat is already
radiating off the bare limestone. After a couple of kilometres and a 300 metre
plus climb, we reach the highest point on the route. The imposing fortress-like
walls of the Murallon de Amuesa lie opposite and ahead we can see the dusty track
wending its way down through the gorge like a thin thread, disappearing around
a bend where the gorge turns to run south-north.</div>
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Now descending, we pass a large wind sculpted pillar of rock
which we name the <i>árbol de piedra</i> for it reminds us of
a petrified tree. The gorge begins to narrow; from far below comes the muffled
roar of the river fed by a foaming cascade gushing from a cave in the
limestone. The heat is tremendous and we’re glad of the number of tunnels which
don’t just offer shade, but also cool down the air that passes though them. Peering
up, I see verdant gullies soaring upwards towards snow capped mountain peaks
glistening in the summer sun, above which the dark shapes of several griffon
vultures slowly circle on the thermals. In the lower reaches of the gorge where
sunlight seldom reaches, a whole microclimate of large ferns and cool cushions
of moss drape the rocky walls.</div>
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The approach to Caín is spectacular. The gorge, now a mere
slit, is crossed twice by suspension bridges, the route then passes through a series of dark dripping galleries before descending right alongside the river
where we stop to splash our sunburnt faces with cool clear water. The tiny <st1:placetype w:st="on">village</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Caín</st1:placename>,
hemmed in by towering mountains, has a range of tapas bars offering a
reasonable <i>menu <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">del</st1:place></st1:state> dia</i>, and the all important cold
beer!<br />
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After a leisurely lunch of zingy gazpacho, veal escalope with <i>cabrales</i> cheese sauce, salad and fries, rounded off with an ice cream, we begin the long trek back to Poncebos. By now some of the route lies in the shade and the cooler temperature has brought out several feral goats with enormous horns who lie indolently across the dusty track and are in no hurry to move as we pass by! We arrive back at Poncebos in the early evening. This is by no means an easy walk in the summer heat and you need to allow at least 7 hours to hike to Caín and back. And be sure to add a few extra hours for stupefied gazing!<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000;">The Orange Tree of Bulnes</span></i></b></h3>
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We save ourselves at least an hour's climb by taking the funicular
railway from Poncebos to Bulnes. A picture postcard village of two
halves - Alto and Bajo - the cobbled streets and tapas bars of the latter hug the bank of the small river that rushes down towards the Cares Gorge. Passing
through the lower half of the village, and carrying heavy rucksacks in stifling heat that makes
the sweat pour from my brow, we begin the very steep ascent up an old paved transhumance
trail towards the rich pastures of Vega de las Cuerres. At first, beech woods obscure
the mountain views and the rough track is fringed with waist high ferns. The
vegetation eventually thins and we catch sight of deep green pastures blanketing
the plunging slopes below the massif which is crowned by the iconic Bulnes de Naranjo. We
have arrived at the <i>majadas</i>, where
handsome brown cows graze amid the ruins of ancient shepherds’ huts. <br />
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Never mind the amazing views, every few feet I find myself
stopping to admire the breathtaking colourful assemblages of flora in the small
stone walled meadows that border the track. The chorus of insects is deafening
and I spot several species of butterfly and moth feeding on the nectar of these wild
flowers, which include kidney vetch, ox eye daisies, bloody crane’s-bill, pale
flax, meadow buttercups, musk-mallow, greater yellow-rattle, white asphodel, maiden
pink, rock cinquefoil, round-headed rampion, the prickly lilac-flowered ‘thistle’
<i>Carduncellus mitissimus</i>, several
species of orchid and the beautiful purple English iris. Higher up we encounter
ling heather which lends a delightful mauve blush to the thousand shades of
green. It’s a shame about the presence of horse flies though, and predictably,
I get bitten!<br />
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Near the top of the Collado (<st1:state w:st="on">Col</st1:state> of) Pandébano we pass right through a herd
of docile cows and their calves, their bells clanking loudly as they graze
contentedly on the lush grass. If we continued on, we’d reach Sotres, but we
branch off towards the Refugio de la Terenosa nestled amid several old
shepherds’ huts where we plan to stay the night. The refugio is run by a
whippet thin bearded man who speaks no English. He runs a very tight ship and the
place is spotless. He does not want our mucky boots to dirt the floor he was
vigorously sweeping as we arrive, and we are ushered outside to a sunny terrace
where he brings us tapas of crispy bread, <i>cabrales </i>cheese and stewed kid goat, plus the all important cold beer to quench our raging
thirst!<br />
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<br />
We watch in silence as white cloud gathers and slowly churns
in the valley below and the clear sky above the nearby mountain tops turns warm
apricot as the sun sinks lower. A couple of mules laden with rubbish from the refugio
we will climb to tomorrow clatter up to the hut, the muleteer stopping for a
quick beer before heading down to Sotres. As night falls, it turns chilly quite
quickly and we retire to the equally spotless dormitory where we sleep like
logs.</div>
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The morning is crisp, there’s not a cloud in the sky and no
mist in the valley. We make a reasonably early start to avoid the crowds, but
also because the air temperature is still cool and part of the trail is in the
shade. From the refugio, the path climbs a long gentle slope to a distinctive cleft in a ridge. The delicate aroma of wild thyme
and dianthus periodically fills the air and we spot many alpine plants
including harebells, alpine aster, rock rose, mountain avens and alpine toadflax. Behind the
peaks of the Peña del Maín, the Atlantic Ocean finally floats into view and one
realises why these mountains got their name: they were the first land seen by
sailors returning to <st1:city w:st="on">Europe</st1:city> from the <st1:place w:st="on">New World</st1:place>.</div>
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A number of wild goats are blocking the path through the
cleft in the ridge and I’m momentarily distracted by them so don’t instantly
see the view that makes all walkers stop and grab their cameras. I gaze in awe
at the trail threading its way round the edge of a huge couloir above
which piles of barren limestone sweep up to a dragon’s back of limestone peaks,
chief of which is the iconic chimney of rock, the Naranjo de Bulnes. The path rises steadily upward in what becomes a tough ascent up a
series of zig-zags. The air is hot, dry and thin, and the dust kicked up by the
passage of our feet lodges in the back of my parched throat.</div>
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Eventually the trail levels out and the Refugio de la Vega
de Urriellu looms into view. It looks somewhat lost and diminutive below the
towering majesty of the Naranjo de Bulnes, in which shadow it sits. The scenery is stark
but awe-inspiring with piebald patches of snow still clinging stubbornly to the
flanks of the jagged mountains and craggy ridges all around. The only sound is the
bleat of sheep and the constant clanking of their bells. After a cool beer we
find a spot to pitch our tent which is permissible above 1,600 metres between
the hours of sunset and sunrise. Patches of deep blue gentian dot the wiry
grass, I’m elated to spot the scarlet and grey flash of a wallcreeper and we spend
the afternoon walking in the immediate vicinity while watching a number of rock
climbers attempting to scale the sheer face of Picu Urriellu.<br />
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After a hearty dinner at the refugio, we retire to our tent
to set up our photography equipment and wait for the mountain to do its magic. A
herd of <i>rebecos</i> (chamoix) suddenly become
visible against a large patch of snow and we watch as these graceful and agile
little animals dance their way across a shelf of rock behind the refugio.<br />
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<br />
Fortunately,
the ‘Naranjo’ lives up to its name and we are treated to a marvellous spectacle
as the dark shadows of the mountains opposite race up its face as the sun sinks lower in the
sky, turning it shades of gold, apricot, orange, rust red and finally black, as
a full moon floats up behind it and a shower of stars erupt across the heavens.<br />
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The return the next day to Bulnes, where we catch the
funicular back down to Poncebos, involves a 1,300 metre descent in searing heat.
We are grateful for the cold beer at the Refugio de la Terenosa and a tasty
meal of wild boar eaten with gusto on a shady flower scented terrace of a tapas
bar in the chocolate box pretty <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">village</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename w:st="on">Bulnes</st1:placename></st1:place>. </div>
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<h3>
<b><i><span style="color: #990000;">The Costa Verde</span></i></b></h3>
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We round off our stay in the region with a few days on the
coast where craggy limestone cliffs cascade down into the cold, wild waters of the <st1:place w:st="on">Bay of Biscay</st1:place>. First stop, <st1:city w:st="on">Oviedo</st1:city>, the bustling capital city of the Principality of Asturias, described by Woody Allen as 'not of this world, like a fairy tale', and its magnificent ninth century
cathedral. Stepping from the searing heat of the plaza into the cool, dark
interior of the cathedral, eerily lit by coloured light filtering through the
stain glass windows set high in the walls above, is to enter another world.
This bastion of Christendom in a kingdom that spearheaded the <i>Reconquista</i>, and which is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, simply reeks with history. It's intimately tied to generations of Asturian royalty; all added their own
flourishes to the building over the centuries, resulting in an array of architectural styles,
from Pre-Romanesque, Baroque, Romanesque, Gothic and Renaissance.<br />
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The altar
with its carved, colourfully decorated and gilded figures depicting the gospels
and the life of Jesus is astounding, but it is the <i>Cámara Santa</i> (sacred
chamber) that everyone wants to see. Contained in a series of exquisitely
decorated boxes in wood and metal encrusted with precious stones, are a number
of relicts, the most famous of which is the <i>Sudarium of Oviedo</i> (Shroud of Oviedo).
This bloodstained cloth is believed to have been wrapped around the head of
Jesus after his crucifixion and has brought pilgrims to the city for centuries.
Crammed into a vaulted chamber with numerous other tourists speaking in hushed
tones out of reverence, I can feel the spirituality of the <i>Cámara Santa</i> emanating from its ancient stonework.<br />
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Some seven kilometres from the quaint fishing town of Ribadesella is
Playa de Vega, a gorgeous stretch of golden silky sand, and a favourite haunt of
surfers. It’s a world away from the crowded, tacky resort eyesores for which most of <st1:country-region w:st="on">Spain</st1:country-region> has become infamous. Only a handful of smart restaurants and <i>chiringuitos</i> line the top of the beach. Here the music is cool, the
clientele bohemian, and the <i>frutos del mar</i>, superb. <i>Al fresco</i> dining as the sun slips down over the Bay of Biscay
is the perfect way to end a day spent lounging on the beach or exploring the rugged Asturian coast.</div>
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One of the most unusual features of the area are the Bufones de Pría, a
series of blow holes in the limestone cliffs near Ribadesella. Undoubtedly on a
winter’s day, when the wind sends the Atlantic surf into a frenzy and the sea
turns to foaming milk, the Bufones would be magnificent, spurting several
metres into the sky. Today these jesters have the last laugh, for they are
indolent and half-hearted; at high tide only one bothers to sporadically manage a misty belch, the spray of which creates transient shimmering rainbows. But they put on
quite a sound show. They hiss, growl and bellow, while one inhales and exhales
like a sleeping monster as the tide moves in and out of caves hidden far
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The feel of cool sand between my toes is delectable as I sip
my glass of wine and stand on the <st1:placetype w:st="on">shore</st1:placetype>
of Playa de Vega watching the vermilion
orb of the sun sinking over the <st1:place w:st="on">Bay of
Biscay</st1:place>. Behind me the magnificent Picos de Europa are turning a
gorgeous shade akin to the ripe flesh of a guava. The rock pools in front of me
flame orange like liquid fire as the sunset enters its grand finale. I feel a
sense of remorse, the end of another day, our last in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Asturias</st1:country-region>. But
as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, I know we will return to the green and
pleasant wonderland that is <i>España Verde</i>.<br />
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Watch the film at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZGzWabcfCXA</div>
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Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-33206450266909657482016-04-11T08:42:00.002-07:002016-09-04T09:29:46.401-07:00Close Encounters of the Ngorongoro Kind: A Tanzanian Safari<div class="MsoNormal">
The cloud on the western horizon turns tandoori red as our
Toyota Landcruiser labours up a winding dusty road,
through dense cloud forests of acacia garlanded with Spanish moss in the volcanic highlands of <st1:country-region w:st="on">Tanzania</st1:country-region>.</div>
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Emmanuel, our driver and guide, stops the jeep and signals us to
follow him. Shivering, we climb out. The dawn air is thin and cold at this
altitude. It is strangely still and the lush vegetation drips with dew. My
breath catches in my throat as I behold the scene before me. Six hundred metres below is a vast, 20 km green basin of grassland, forest and marsh. At its
centre, a pale lake shimmers in the glassy glare of the rising sun. Roaming
across this vast stage are tiny back dots: herds of zebra, buffalo, antelope and wildebeest and the lake edge is fringed with the pink of thousands of flamingos. Cloud
pours like liquid down over the sides of the vast caldera which resembles the
Biblical Garden of Eden. This is the mighty Ngorongoro Crater, formed during a cataclysmic volcanic eruption of around two million years ago, and we are about
to witness one of the greatest natural shows on Earth.</div>
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Back in the jeep, we continue our journey along a rough
track that climbs into the immense undulating savanna above the crater. The grasslands are broken by the odd Umbrella thorn <span style="font-family: inherit;">(<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 16.12px;"><i>Vachellia tortilis</i>)</span> or</span> African myrrh (<i>Commiphora Africana</i>), as well as Maasai <i>boma</i>, enclosures containing animal pens and circular huts with conical rush roofs, all of which are encircled by a palisade of wooden stakes that
keeps the Maasai's livestock safe from predators. We pass a Maasai man striding effortlessly
up the dusty road. His deep red plaid wraps him from shoulders to knees and he
bears a stick in his left hand. More Maasai tribespeople - tall, slender,
elegant, draped in red cloth and bedecked with strings of multicoloured beads
and intricate earrings - appear by the side of the road, but we have no time to
stop, for game watching is best done in the early morning when the animals are
most active.</div>
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Water is scarce in the savanna highland in the dry season, so
the Maasai are permitted to bring their livestock down to the crater for water
and grazing, and we follow the road they use which descends steeply down over
the crater wall to Seneto Springs. We make a quick stop to raise the roof of
the jeep so we can stand up comfortably to view the game, before we begin our descent to a
place that feels something like a lost world. Soft white cloud is reflected in
the mirror-like <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Magadi</st1:placename></st1:place>, its salt
encrusted shore blushing pastel pink with thousands of flamingos feeding on
algae and shrimp. Ahead, Massai tribesmen drive their cattle slowly across the grassy
plain amid herds of zebra and wildebeest. The noise of waterfowl
squawking at the waterholes fills the air. Two wildebeest lock horns and lower themselves onto their front knees and scuffle, kicking up volumes of dust; in the background a female ostrich ambles by.</div>
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Rust red game-viewing trails spread out in all directions
and I can see the black dots of at least another dozen or so jeeps shimmering
in the heat haze. We head north east past the Goose Ponds and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Mandusi</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Swamp</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
Pink flamingos on impossibly slender legs congregate near the edges of brackish
pools and we are delighted to see a pair of grey-crowned cranes, sporting
golden head crests and bright red wattles. In the distance, large herds of Grant’s
and Thompson’s gazelles are grazing.</div>
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The sun reflects off the rounded pink backs of over a dozen hippo
wallowing in a pool. We are watching one ambling away when
our attention is distracted by a pair of hyena who approach for a drink. They
pass by close enough to the jeep for us to see the coarseness of their thick
spotted coats, their long, muscular necks, massive skulls, and round, slightly
pointed ears. Emmanuel tells us that besides hunting, they can also consume
carrion in an advanced state of decomposition. Their powerful jaws, highly
acidic stomach, and enlarged and powerful premolars enable them to crush and
digest even the largest bones of their prey.</div>
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<o:p> </o:p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpqC-sr52rrrCRfe04-yBv0SxZNUG6TT92OeN2B1m8vE591lU3Ce7fKh-UE-VzSjbBxzi5tDJ2p0JdZ6WUvg2tZGlQHz29YU7MjNZ_B6Fd1aZDuhYkDwbbURgILyFg2ZMqKZdbq3fpC9yk/s1600/Safari-92.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpqC-sr52rrrCRfe04-yBv0SxZNUG6TT92OeN2B1m8vE591lU3Ce7fKh-UE-VzSjbBxzi5tDJ2p0JdZ6WUvg2tZGlQHz29YU7MjNZ_B6Fd1aZDuhYkDwbbURgILyFg2ZMqKZdbq3fpC9yk/s320/Safari-92.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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En route to Engitati Hill, we spot a large augur buzzard in
the grass. This magnificent raptor has brown and white barbed wings and rust
coloured tail feathers. Sensing our presence, it soars into the sky. Emmanuel
then points out a large earth mound about 400 metres away, at the top of which a pair of cheetah
recline in the morning sun. From this vantage point these magnificent predators
scan the surrounding grassland looking for prey. I’m hugely impressed by his ability to see these spotted cats which are incredibly well
camouflaged against the terrain.</div>
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The radio suddenly crackles into life and Emmanuel informs
us that one of the other guides, with whom he is in constant radio contact, has
located a lion kill. We immediately notice a number of vultures circling above
a spot on the nearby hillside and a hyena running away at speed with what looks
like a wildebeest leg dangling from its mouth. We soon join the end of a line of
stationary jeeps, straining our necks to see. I’m glad that we have opted for a
private safari as some of the other jeeps have 6-8 people crammed into them,
leaving everyone jostling for space which presents problems when filming.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 20.79px;">Eventually we get close enough to see a lioness hidden in some long dry grass.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"> </span>She is perfectly camouflaged and it's only the flick of her black-tipped tail that initially giv</span>es away her position.
I then spy one of her cubs lying in the
shade of a clump of grass just metres from the jeep. It is panting profusely in the heat. We don’t move along
very far before we encounter another lioness. She is lying down and appears to be satiated. Perhaps she was one of the pride that brought down the
wildebeest that morning? Ngorongoro has the greatest concentration of lions in Africa and you'd be very unfortunate indeed not to see any. </div>
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We eventually move on, passing more hippos sunning themselves
by the banks of a pool; small birds are perched on their backs feasting on the parasites embedded in their thick skin. The hippo are perfectly still apart from their tiny tails flicking away the flies. It's not long before we come face to face with yet another lion, this time a large male who has drawn the attention of
several jeeps from which numerous camera lenses project. He is lying right in the
middle of the dusty track and seems unperturbed by our presence. Blinking into the fierce sunlight, he yawns,
baring a set of ferocious looking canines. His nose bears the blackened scars
of past battles and his coat is covered with flies which make him twitch
constantly. He shakes his ragged mane, slowly rises to his feet and wanders
straight towards our jeep, where he flops down in its shade. It’s an
unbelievable moment. I can almost reach down to touch him and he’s so close, I
can smell his pungent odour.</div>
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After our close encounter with the lion, we trundle along through a grassy plain spotting kori bustards, grey-breasted spur-fowl, guinea fowl and several male ostriches, before we encounter
a family of warthogs: a boar, a sow and six piglets. The adults, rusty
coloured wiry hair on their backs caked in dried mud, are busy foraging using
their curved tusks to dig up roots, while their young dart about between them. The
piglets, each with a ridge of rust red bristles down their back, are quite
adorable and highly amusing to watch.</div>
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Suddenly Emmanuel lets out a low cry. He has spotted
something moving out in the wide expanse of grassland. Martin grabs his
binoculars and scans the terrain. The excitement is palpable. A large grey animal moves slowly in the shimmering heat haze. It has the unmistakable curved
horn of a black rhino! One of the 'big five' and among the most endangered
species on the planet, there are less than two dozen of these noble beasts left
in Ngorongoro. We feel privileged to have seen this one which slowly moves off
to become lost from sight in the grass and heat haze.</div>
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We move on across the vast open plain surrounding the
eastern end of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Magadi</st1:placename></st1:place>. Borne on the warm
breeze, is the sharp and unmistakable odour of fresh blood mingled with the pungent
smell of spilled intestinal matter. A zebra lies on its side near a solitary
acacia tree, stomach torn open, its body already beginning to putrefy in the African heat.
It appears to have lain down in the shade of this tree to die this very morning. Amid a cloud of flies is a roiling wake of rapacious vultures - Ruppells griffon,
white-backed and Egyptian - a surging, seething mass of black and brown
feathers, of stabling beaks, lunging necks and flailing wings.</div>
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The carcass twitches violently as if still in its death
throes as the birds attack it with gusto. The largest vultures, the
lappetfaced, are preening themselves in the acacia tree, having had their fill.
They were responsible for ripping open the zebra’s hide with their powerful
beaks allowing the others to join the stinking smorgasbord. My stomach churns
as a white-backed probes the zebra’s nostril while another thrusts its head
deep into its anus; a pink gaping hole exists where once an eye had been.
Attracted by the stench of death, more diners whirl above and swoop in one by
one, cautiously sidling up to the foul feast, backs hunched and heads low. A fight
breaks out as a Ruppell's griffon attempts to push its way in, causing a
menacing chorus of hisses, cackles and caws. An Egyptian vulture hops off
trailing a length of intestine, its head smeared in blood and faeces, while a Ruppell’s
Griffon pauses to scan the area keenly, its white ruff wet with gore, and its vicious
looking beak smeared with viscera. Emmanuel tells us that within an hour, this
carcass will be stripped clean. Nature red in tooth and claw indeed.</div>
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The sight of zebra is by now ubiquitous, there are several
thousand of them in the crater, and as we approach the Lerai Forest, Emmanuel
is alerted by another guide that a leopard has been spotted in a tree. Having
not seen a leopard on our last safari in <st1:country-region w:st="on">South Africa</st1:country-region>, I can barely contain
my excitement. We join a cluster of jeeps with cameras angled toward a tree
some fifty metres away. At first I can see nothing, until the big cat, a
female, shifts her position in the fork of the tree. She strides along one of
the branches before crouching down, the black rosettes on her coat allowing her to become
almost invisible against the bark and through the leaves and thorns of the tree.
We watch her for well over twenty minutes as she occasionally moves amid the
branches. She seems unsettled and Emmanuel senses that she will climb down.
Indeed, our patience is finally rewarded when she scrambles down the trunk head first. Her sleek, spotted body slips quietly away through the long dry grass with barely a ripple.</div>
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Attention now turns to creatures of a smaller kind as we
spot a variety of birds as we pass through the forest: the odd-looking
red-billed hornbill, ground hornbill and black hornbill, the latter sporting a
huge bony protuberance on its beak; red and yellow barbet; the parrot-like
Fischer’s lovebird; white-headed buffalo-weaver; long-tailed fiscal shrike, multi
coloured rollers and the Cape starling with its magnificent iridescent blue
plumage.</div>
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In the shadow of an acacia tree we encounter another scene
of carnage - a trail of mottled brown and white feathers – the victim, a
hapless guinea fowl. The culprit, a large eagle, is hunched over the remnants
of its carcass. It fixes us keenly with a piercing yellow eye. Most people are
eager to see the 'Big Five', but for me creatures of the feathered variety simply
steal the show. There is enough variety in Ngorongoro’s bird life to turn even
the most dedicated big-mammal follower into a twitcher.</div>
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A large troop of baboons suddenly appear through the trees. They pause in a clearing and we are hypnotised by their almost
human like antics. One scans the ground, jabbing its paws repeatedly into the
grass for seeds, grubs and shoots; a female sits upright lazily scratching herself while she is
attentively groomed for fleas by a younger female. A fight breaks out between two ‘teenage’ males over a large seed pod,
which ends with one dispensing an almighty cuff to the head of the other, who
departs shrieking loudly. A mother carries her tiny baby on her back as she
strides across the clearing on all fours. She pauses to fix us knowingly with
her brown eyes as our cameras snap away.</div>
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It’s now early afternoon and we make for the Ngaitokitok
Springs, an idyllic green oasis in the middle of the parched grasslands with a popular
picnic spot at the shore of a lake. Here it’s permissible to leave the jeep.
Emmanuel tells us it’s best to eat our lunch inside the vehicle, as the area is
plagued by yellow-billed kites that will try to steal our packed lunch. The
only bother we get is from an inquisitive yellow and black lesser-masked weaver which
perches on the edge of our jeep. However, some American tourists who have seemingly
ignored their guide’s advice about not eating in the open, are attacked by a
kite which deftly swipes a sandwich from a shrieking woman!</div>
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I sit on the lake shore under the shade of an acacia tree festooned with the spherical grass nests of a species of weaver bird. Every so often one of several
hippos breaks the surface of the water, ears twitching, before ducking out of sight
again. I can hear them grunting to each other as they bob up and down in the water.
It’s hard to believe that these are one of <st1:place w:st="on">Africa</st1:place>’s
most dangerous animals, they look so docile! I’m loath to leave but there’s
plenty more to see as we begin our route out of the crater.</div>
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As we drive away from the Springs, we see a couple of buffalo
lying in the grass close to a white egret with another huge herd of wildebeest
behind. Their gruesome looking horns means these monsters are not to be messed
with and they are one of the ‘big five’, feared for their unpredictability by the
trophy hunters of yesteryear. We have now spotted lions, a leopard, a black rhinoceros
and the buffalo, four of the ‘big five’, leaving only elephant to see.</div>
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Elephant herds are noticeably absent from the crater floor
because the cows and calves tend to prefer the forested highlands. They
sometimes appear at the crater rim but only rarely venture down into the
grasslands. However, Emmanuel informs us that this area is known as the ‘elephant’s
graveyard’ and we are likely to spot aged bull elephants here. No sooner are the
words out of his mouth than we spot the enormous bleached bones of an elephant’s
skeleton. Elephants undergo six phases of dentition over their lifetime. When the last tooth is worn down,
it becomes difficult for them to chew their food properly and they usually start to look around for softer vegetation, such as that which is growing here. In the end, however, old elephants are simply unable to sufficiently masticate their food and succumb to gradual starvation. They die in this swampy place and this
is probably how the myth of such ‘elephant graveyards’ arose. At the margins of the lush grassland, we eventually spot the
tell-tale frame of a huge bull elephant sporting an enormous pair of tusks. Every so often he flaps his large ears
and his trunk dexterously hoovers the ground, sweeping tender grass shoots up into
his mouth.</div>
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Emmanuel points out yet more lions as we begin our
journey towards the ascent road out of the crater. Several are rolling around
in the long grass a mere ten metres from us, and another is dozing beneath a
thorn bush right by the track. Although we are ridiculously close to this young
male with an impressive brown and black shaggy mane, he’s not the least bit
interested in our presence. Lions are lazy creatures and spend most of the day
sleeping like this one.</div>
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Vervet monkeys, many nursing young, chatter nosily in an acacia thicket as we pass by, and we see yet more antelope. The
concentration of over 25,000 ungulates inside Ngorongoro Crater was a major reason for designating the Ngorongoro
Conservation Area as a World Heritage Site in 1979. We spot eland, Coke's hartebeest,
and more Grant’s and Thompson’s gazelles. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4ncEH05fGLaqb9aP_SEMJq6SjwdWwcwQuFzWQDv6tWN57NqYZ9RrMuQbUqkDQqbo1FLOqLW-YYejI35YSd-8taa4rvjUTbWZG6RltKYILpfGxfRol3UAFlOrXGFoVexsdf7Vvp4b7gYr-/s1600/Safari-130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4ncEH05fGLaqb9aP_SEMJq6SjwdWwcwQuFzWQDv6tWN57NqYZ9RrMuQbUqkDQqbo1FLOqLW-YYejI35YSd-8taa4rvjUTbWZG6RltKYILpfGxfRol3UAFlOrXGFoVexsdf7Vvp4b7gYr-/s320/Safari-130.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Our jeep begins the steep climb up the crater wall. I wistfully look back down into the gaping hole formed by the cataclysmic volcanic eruption of around two million years ago, which has been transformed over the passage of
time into an African version of Noah’s <st1:place w:st="on">Ark.</st1:place>
In this, the world's largest intact volcanic caldera, an incredible variety of animals, whose migration options are limited by
the 600 metre high walls, thrive under the endless pale blue sky of east Africa. It
has been a privilege to experience this place, if only for a few hours.<br />
<br />
In Ngorongoro the extremes of abundance and scarcity, life and death, are laid bare and suffused with the olfactory, the audible and the visual: the odour of parched earth
and dung; the whispering of the savanna grasses in the wind; the startled hooves of zebra; the black shadow of a circling vulture; the warning cry of a mother wildebeest; the knowing stare of a fellow
primate; the swoosh of an eagle’s wings… All this and more awakens something primitive
in one’s very soul, a feeling of freedom, of being at one with nature. Ngorongoro awakens the African that dwells deep within every <i>homo sapiens</i>.</div>
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Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-3712988764988172932016-04-07T16:22:00.000-07:002016-04-10T17:17:47.425-07:00The Journey to Middle Land Narsarsuaq, Greenland: Or There and Back Again<div class="MsoNormal">
The late August mid-morning sun is hot on our shoulders as
we set off from the <i>Narsarsuaq Hotel </i>past the small international airport where
a UN aircraft is taxiing down the runway. This airstrip, constructed on the
out-wash plain of the Kuussuup glacier, was originally built in WWII by the <st1:country-region w:st="on">USA</st1:country-region> as a transit base (called <i>Bluie West One</i>)
for flights to <st1:place w:st="on">Europe</st1:place>. The base was superseded
after the construction of the larger <st1:city w:st="on">Thule</st1:city> air
base in North Greenland, which still operates as a <st1:country-region w:st="on">US</st1:country-region> base today. <i>Bluie West One</i>
closed in 1951 and reverted to Danish control in 1958.</div>
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<st1:placename w:st="on">Today</st1:placename> during the summer season, <st1:placename w:st="on">Narsarsuaq</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Airport</st1:placetype>
is served by flights from <st1:city w:st="on">Reykjavík</st1:city>, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Iceland</st1:country-region>, and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Copenhagen</st1:city>, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Denmark</st1:country-region></st1:place>, and year round by the Air Greenland fleet of aircraft and
helicopters. The arrival by airplane into this airport is unforgettable, the
approach taking you spell-bindingly low over the immense <st1:place w:st="on">Greenland</st1:place>
ice cap and then down the narrow fjord squeezed between high mountains containing vast volumes of water that was frozen aeons ago.</div>
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The population of Narsarsuaq is only about 160, with the
airport and tourism being the main sources of employment. Not much happens in
this place with a mere handful of weatherboard houses, a small supermarket and a
couple of drab blocks of Soviet-style flats. Indeed, the largest building is
the <i>Narsarsuaq Hotel</i>, with a façade like something out of 1960's communist <st1:place w:st="on">Eastern Europe</st1:place>. When a flight is due in or out, Narsarsuaq
temporarily buzzes with activity, before sliding back into a state of torpor.</div>
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We are beginning a 2-day trek to <i>Mellem Landet</i>, ‘<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Middle</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Land</st1:placetype></st1:place>’, a 30 km long and 6
km wide peninsula pincered between two glaciers. Sounding for all the world like something straight from the pages of a Tolkien novel, Middle Land is a popular area for a one day hike to get
up close to the nose of the Kuussuup glacier on its western flank which, being no longer anywhere near the sea, is accessible. But we have
opted to do a longer hike across to the eastern flank of the peninsula to view the Qooqqup glacier which is actively calving into the sea, rather than a pile of dirty melting ice! </div>
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We stride out along an old tarmac road which takes us NE for
several kilometres through an area named <st1:place w:st="on"><i><st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></i></st1:place>.
Here the US 188th <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Station</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place> was sited,
betrayed now only by the sight of the gaunt stone chimney breast of
the Officer’s Club and some crumbling concrete foundations. After this we hit a
rocky track. This passes through a picturesque out-wash plain named <i>Blomsterdalen</i> ‘the flower valley’, dominated
by the chalky turquoise coils of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Kuusuaq</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place>. The flowers are long
past their prime, with just a few straggly looking harebells and the withered stems of fireweed now sporting heads of fluffy seed, visible by the side of the
track. The hand of autumn lies quietly across the landscape, the bilberry,
dwarf birch and grasses turning eye-pleasing shades of gold, russet and red.</div>
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After weaving through golden fields where the hay has been mown, the route, now a narrow path, leads to the bottom of a wall of
rock. There follows an almost 300 metre climb up a cliff face by the side of a small waterfall onto the Middle Land
plateau. This ascent via a rough pathway is
quite steep in places and passes through dwarf trees and over rock worn to a
fine polish by the passage of countless feet. On the steepest sections, thick
ropes have been fixed in place, presumably by the tourist companies who take
clients to visit the glacier.</div>
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From the top of the cliffs, a magnificent view of the
terrain we had just covered opens before us. There is indeed something almost
Tolkienesque about this fantastical landscape of rock sliced in two by an icy
behemoth that has spewed enormous quantities of gravel and sand onto the vast out-wash
plain that stretches for kilometres down to the jade coloured waters of the Tunulliarfik Fjord dotted with
icebergs. </div>
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Feeling rather like a Hobbit leaving the Shire for stranger lands, we branch off the pathway that most day trippers take to see the Kuussuup glacier, striking out across the rocky shore of a lake and over the river feeding the
falls, before beginning a further gradual 300 metre ascent onto the wild spine of this rocky
peninsula. The going is tough across trackless rough ground, but we are
distracted from our physical exertions by glorious views of the Kuussuup
glacier which unfold as we climb higher, and the large juicy bilberries which
pepper the ground providing a refreshing snack.</div>
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Eventually the ground levels and we make good speed over
wiry grass interspersed with desiccated black and green lichen. We now pass a
series of lakes, one of which is sited in a boggy amphitheatre that offers good
protection from the wind, and which has a perfectly dry level patch close to
plenty of dried wood for our stove. A perfect place to set up camp.</div>
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We sit in the open tent sipping the Brennivín we had
brought from <st1:country-region w:st="on">Iceland</st1:country-region>,
watching the sun slip behind the nearby mountains, turning the sky and clouds
into a canvas of colour with all the exuberance and vitality of an Impressionist masterpiece. As twilight sets in, it does not get really dark here yet, we
retire to our sleeping bags with our freeze dried dinners to escape the chill breeze blowing off the nearby lake.
Tomorrow we have just a short 1.5 km walk to a viewpoint overlooking the Qooqqup
glacier.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGjKvqcPe_diZHRUqyki26hJU9oBONGagfQfjYZ1m3KWn-O0wDSs673UjbGJubGMAG0J06BCjvLz5dEuj_XS5axCiiQaC5AccU-5pxjaa5tLIlxXNoFLkycyPzwk46eow2UP-mD-LTNFre/s1600/20150819-235554-P9080447.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGjKvqcPe_diZHRUqyki26hJU9oBONGagfQfjYZ1m3KWn-O0wDSs673UjbGJubGMAG0J06BCjvLz5dEuj_XS5axCiiQaC5AccU-5pxjaa5tLIlxXNoFLkycyPzwk46eow2UP-mD-LTNFre/s320/20150819-235554-P9080447.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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However, the maps available for <st1:place w:st="on">Greenland</st1:place>
are pretty poor and the colour graded trekking tracks indicated on them do not always reflect the
topography, or the difficulty on the ground, and I've grown used to nothing being 'easy' in Greenland!<br />
<br />
It’s another glorious day
and following a quick breakfast, we zip up our tent and take just our valuables, essential gear and some water for the short hike to the viewpoint. A gentle climb uphill
behind our camp takes us onto a ridge which we follow for a few hundred metres
before descending towards a large lake.</div>
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We now face our first obstacle in the form of a 75 metre deep ravine with
near vertical walls and a river that runs into the lake. After much time
wasting, we manage to descend from the ridge into the ravine via a steep gully, where we cross
the river and pick up a path of sorts on the other side which gradually climbs
towards the viewpoint. </div>
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The ground hereabouts becomes a contorted mass of rock riven
by small gullies dotted with metallic green pools which isn't really depicted on the map. Under an oppressive sun, we
pick our way slowly over obstacle after obstacle until we arrive at the foot of
a scree slope beneath a 100 metre high rocky knoll with the viewpoint at its summit. Our hearts sink.
It’s an impenetrable fortress of sheer cliffs and crumbly outcrops which shower
rock down onto us the minute we attempt to scale it. Not to be defeated after
making it this far, Martin sets off to explore another way up. Unable to remain in
one place for too long due to the swarms of midges and mosquitoes that have
made an unwelcome appearance, I ramble amid the rocks, startling a lone ptarmigan which rises on whirring wings, letting out a visceral ‘ker-ker-ker’
cry which shatters the silence giving me quite a fright!</div>
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Martin suddenly bellows to me triumphantly from atop a ledge
halfway up the western side of the knoll. He’d found a route. I dump my walking poles, and he directs me to climb up a precarious rock face followed by a scramble onto
a sloping ledge thick with vegetation. From here its an easy stroll to the top
of the knoll where a spectacular vista of the glacier, until now hidden from view, is finally revealed.</div>
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Staring into the brilliant sunshine, I blink at the sight of
the gnarled and shattered nose of the mighty glacier which has completely
choked the fjord with a stream of icebergs, thousands of them, from the size of
a suitcase to miniature floating islands, white and porcelain-smooth, or
crinkled, cracked and tinted turquoise, complete with hillocks, gullies, cliffs
and tiny waterfalls. This geological ejecta continues right to the end of the fjord,
which appears to be 3-4 km away, but is
in reality over 15 km, so clear is the Arctic air making it near impossible to
judge distances. Every so often the ice creaks and groans as it continues its
inexorable journey towards the sea.</div>
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I could sit here forever taking in this stupendous
geological spectacle, but we’re being bitten alive by armies of midges and
mosquitoes which are doing battle with us like a horde of ferocious Orcs! Safely down from the rocky knoll, we
make for our tent, finding a far easier route that takes us along a narrow beach on
the SW side of the large lake which had been impossible to see on descent, before a less steep climb onto the ridge above our camp.</div>
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The lake has something of a Mediterranean feel to it, its clear
waters tinged aquamarine and turquoise, the arc of its pebble strewn shore glowing
golden in the midday sunlight. We sit on the small beach fringed with cerise
pink fireweed splashing our faces and listening to the melodic tinkle of minute
waves rippling ashore, until the insects again make it impossible to remain any
longer.</div>
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After a quick lunch we break camp under a sky that is beginning
to cloud over. The atmosphere turns oppressive, as if the Dark Lord of Mordor has cast his malevolent shadow across <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Middle</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Land</st1:placetype></st1:place>, and the intense silence becomes quite unnerving. Dark cloud rumbles around the snow streaked
peaks of the mountains across the Kuussuup Glacier; the gray of rock and sky
become deeper, more profound, and the white of the glacier is almost
incandescent. The weather is changing and I momentarily sense the onset of
winter.</div>
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At the top of the falls, we see great shards of sunlight radiating down over <i>Blomstersdalen</i> from
gaps in the cloud, causing the serpentine coils of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Kuusuaq</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place> to gleam with an unreal lucidity. We make rapid progress down the pathway by the
falls and are soon winding our way along the track above the river. We cast long shadows upon the ground in the late afternoon sun which shines straight into
<i>Blomstersdalen</i>,<i> </i>making the rock of the steep cliff face we have just
traversed glow like the walls of a gilded temple.</div>
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The walk back to the <i>Narsarsuaq
Hotel</i> along the stony track and then the tarmac road feels endless and my feet protest against the monotonous pounding. After what seems
like an eternity, we finally reach the outskirts of Narsarsuaq, as still and silent as a ghost town, its buildings bathed in the golden tones of the sinking sun. Glowing specks of candlelight illuminate the windows of
the hotel's restaurant, and, like a moth to a naked flame, I'm instantly drawn to them.</div>
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Famished, I salivate with anticipation at tucking into the musk ox steak
that is sizzling on the restaurant grill and satiate my thirst with a cool pint of silky black <i>Qaleralik</i>, my
favourite Greenlandic craft ale. Our two day 27 km trek to Middle Land to see the Qooqqup glacier and back
again, has been like a journey straight from the pages of a Tolkien novel, one brim full of
adventure through an epic and forbidding landscape which almost defies description. For gazing at the nose of the glacier was like staring straight into the Eye of Sauron; it
is a sight that will remain indelibly etched behind my eyes.</div>
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Watch our video of this trek at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S0DFMLa3L_M</div>
Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-39291484904125604062016-04-03T15:27:00.000-07:002016-07-27T06:07:02.057-07:00Wilderness Trekking in Erik the Red’s Land: Qassiarsuk to Narsaq, Greenland<h3>
<b><span style="color: #990000;">The Stuff of Sagas</span></b></h3>
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The boat that had carried us the short hop across the icy
turquoise waters from Narsarsuaq to Qassiarsuk recedes across the fjord,
weaving its way past icebergs, leaving a faint white wake. It’s so quiet, the
sound of its engine humming like an angry hornet takes ages to fade. The mid-August sun is
hot on my shoulders as we make our way up the small jetty of this sleepy sheep
farming community to begin a six day trek across a peninsula called Erik the
Red’s Land to the fishing port of Narsaq, which a prominently placed sign
states is 50 kilometres away. A traverse across the peninsula is marked on the
1:100,000 scale map of the area. However, as we found out during trekking in Klosterdalen, Tasermiut Fjord, this map, like the one we used there, is unlikely to be very accurate, and navigating in poor weather
would be a challenge to say the least. We are well prepared, and are carrying a satellite phone and a DeLorm<span style="font-family: inherit;">e InReach satellite device that allows 2-way SMS and email messaging. </span></div>
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The signpost also mentions ‘Ruiner’, which refer to some of
the most interesting and important Norse remains in <st1:place w:st="on">Greenland</st1:place>.
Qassiarsuk is close to the late 10<sup>th</sup> century farmstead, <i>Brattahlíð</i>, which
is mentioned in the Saga of Erik the Red. Supposedly founded by him, it is the
first Viking settlement in Greenland and the first to be established in <st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region> by
Europeans. Several archaeological excavations in the nineteenth and twentieth
centuries uncovered the foundations of late-medieval buildings, including a
church with a rectangular churchyard containing human remains, and a well
preserved long house. But in 1961, during the building of a school hostel
around 200 metres away from the excavated church, several human skulls were
unearthed, and in 1962 five excavations took place which revealed a small
church with a stone floor and thin wooden walls banked by layers of turf
surrounded by a circular churchyard containing 150 interments. </div>
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According to the Saga of Erik the Red, his son, Leif the
Lucky, introduced Christianity to <st1:place w:st="on">Greenland</st1:place>
around the year 1000 by order of the Norwegian king, Olav Tryggvason. Erik did
not renounce paganism for Christianity, but his wife, Thojdhild, did and she
built a small church which was sited some distance from Erik’s farmstead so as
not to antagonise him. The foundations of this tiny church is believed to be that referred to in Erik
the Red’s Saga and probably served as the burial place for the earliest
colonists before the larger church was built nearby. The disappearance of the
Viking settlements such as <i>Brattahlíð</i> toward the end of the 15th century
puzzles historians, but was likely the result of a combination of climate change due to the Little Ice Age, Inuit expansion, the loss of trade in furs and walrus tusks with Europe, and competition from the <st1:place w:st="on">Hanseatic League</st1:place>.<br />
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In 2000, to celebrate the millennium of Norse settlement in <st1:place w:st="on">Greenland</st1:place>, the Icelandic government funded a
reconstruction of a long house and <i>Thojdhild’s church</i>, complete with period
furnishings. For 50 kroner you can visit both of these buildings. There’s also
a prominently placed statue of Erik’s son, Leif, not far from the jetty. Leif was
allegedly the first European to cross the North Atlantic and discover the Americas, a region he named <st1:place w:st="on">Vinland</st1:place>. It’s therefore not hard to see why the Narsaq
Peninsula has been named Erik the Red’s Land in the Norseman’s honour, and the
‘ruins’ and reconstructions are worth an hour of anyone’s time before setting
off along the unsealed road towards the sheep farming community of Sillisit some
14 km away.</div>
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Our feet kick up clouds of rust red dust which coat the surrounding grassland as we climb a rough track that runs through areas of
scrubby grass above Qassiarsuk, its houses hugging the shore in a jumbled mass
of brightly coloured dots. It’s harvest
time and so precious is this grass as animal fodder that it has been mown round
natural obstacles such as large boulders and rocky knolls, and much of it is lying
in felled lines on the ground, or has already been baled in white plastic as silage to
be fed to the flocks of sheep that will be kept indoors during the long Arctic
winter. We are surprised at how parched the landscape is. Local farmers are
bemoaning the weather; while in <st1:place w:st="on">Ireland</st1:place>
we have seen little of summer beneath leaden skies dampening our spirits with
almost continual mist and rain, here it’s been hot since June with little rain
after a brutally cold winter, and crop yields are down 20 per cent on last
year. Agriculture here is marginal at the best of times and this long spell of dry
weather is little short of a disaster.</div>
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The day is warm and muggy with thin cloud trapping the heat
as we pass by a large lake with aquatic plants fringing its boggy shore, its
still deep blue surface the perfect mirror to reflect some snowy peaks that
rise behind it. Tiny blue gentian dot the scrubby grass and the haunting cries
of white-tailed sea eagles, who put on a stunning aerial display, accompany us
as we climb high above the fjord, its turquoise water peppered with icebergs.
The track weaves its way past many lakes and I am pleased to discover that
midges and mosquitoes are far less troublesome here than further south in
Tasermiut Fjord. Indeed, mosquitoes appear to dislike land on which sheep are grazed,
but there is still the odd one around and I have taken every precaution not to
get bitten! A couple of farmers heading to and from the farmsteads near Sillisit pass by us in jeeps with friendly waves, but apart from a couple of dishevelled
French day trippers who are struggling uphill like a pair of wind broken horses
en route to Qassiarsuk, we see no one else. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJpuQmQKITuFsocG2KWq-jE2G6GuHbo_lV32IM1Ex2nb0vsoQUNOzUyp1JNdXCWxlDFtlQUGdYLprCZRwicVTug-AjIBfzAmhcAy9hVVEaywLmtzOLHJaYr4O8SKhuSlTawotltROB-M8F/s1600/Blog+pictures-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJpuQmQKITuFsocG2KWq-jE2G6GuHbo_lV32IM1Ex2nb0vsoQUNOzUyp1JNdXCWxlDFtlQUGdYLprCZRwicVTug-AjIBfzAmhcAy9hVVEaywLmtzOLHJaYr4O8SKhuSlTawotltROB-M8F/s320/Blog+pictures-6.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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A long, undulating trackway now takes us down towards the
fjord where masses of jagged icebergs, stranded on submerged glacial moraine, cluster
at the entrance to the Qooqqut fjord having been calved from the Qooqqup
glacier some 15 km away. We stop right at the shoreline where a huge shelf of gleaming
grey granite riven by a deep black dyke, slips into the crystal clear water
where ragged strands of brilliantly coloured seaweed float. In the shade of a
large boulder, we sit awhile and listen to the melodic sound of small waves
lapping against the rock. Every so often the air is rent with a sound like a
musket shot, as ice splits and shears away from the huge glaciers a kilometre so so out in the fjord, each creating a mini tsunami.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhaQRBBq6RkzZJWWBdIC4TykJYaAMoFrRELqzd06IT1mxgPo5VMOO1EiMDGdde09BwZvrDSjOJNq-lv-r5_SchcvvIBs2oqjc694kVVWA67DsSux6mgQ-OJfGWhbpQFka3Z-SVILYgsjZP/s1600/Greenland-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhaQRBBq6RkzZJWWBdIC4TykJYaAMoFrRELqzd06IT1mxgPo5VMOO1EiMDGdde09BwZvrDSjOJNq-lv-r5_SchcvvIBs2oqjc694kVVWA67DsSux6mgQ-OJfGWhbpQFka3Z-SVILYgsjZP/s320/Greenland-6.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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A steep, dusty track climbs away from the shoreline to a
small headland just before the farming community of Issormiut a few kilometres
from Sillisit, which offers grandstand views down into the Tunulliarfik Fjord.
Wanting to indulge in some time lapse photography, we decide to stop here to
set up camp close to a small stream. Wood is particularly abundant and we
gather armfuls of tinder dry, sun bleached branches of juniper, birch and
willow. Using my fire stick to light the Honey stove, I watch as orange flames
lick around the pencil sized pieces of wood inside, sending forth aromatic
clouds of pale blue smoke. This lightweight titanium stove is a godsend, as the
presence of abundant dead wood in most places allows us to heat water without
the need to carry much liquid fuel which we save for the high mountain areas.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWyUlnlZrVH0JhLQZCFP68L8Y3msQ5LShTTEIxcfCPavA1V_-Xd4M7xuyXmEHt6dXnAqigrdu2BBD3LSXeUi7bSpf0biL2Y71Tmvpe6x7aQsdvEo7UakFOmTnlo6vPLUsSasYcGGFkGc8n/s1600/Greenland-11-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWyUlnlZrVH0JhLQZCFP68L8Y3msQ5LShTTEIxcfCPavA1V_-Xd4M7xuyXmEHt6dXnAqigrdu2BBD3LSXeUi7bSpf0biL2Y71Tmvpe6x7aQsdvEo7UakFOmTnlo6vPLUsSasYcGGFkGc8n/s320/Greenland-11-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Indeed, there is something about fire that awakens the
primordial in us. Source of light, heat, protection and means of cooking our
food, fire is one of the fundamental things which makes us human. From the very
first spark ever struck, all the way down to the coal fired machinery of the industrial
revolution which catapulted us into the modern technological age; from the
first simple languages uttered round a camp fire, to the sharing of ideas,
telling of stories, and the creation of culture that enriches our lives, fire
has been pivotal in human evolution and development. Unfortunately, in many
places worldwide, fires on trekking trails or in parks aren't permitted, but here
in <st1:place w:st="on">Greenland</st1:place> there is no ban, so I am eagerly looking
forward to sitting next to a roaring camp fire with Martin as
the sun sets.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ_fNy8rPfVZEhQYqYC2lxiu5QhE19CASWHFK6EiYGhP2tkBq5TbkEC2aefoaCPjG74HL_Z3RKZQkDD2g6xFKOmXtHMc0lMWaDQfqznZ6bEQgLJHtNQ2tomojNi3LcmzsDMKjSDr7D7-go/s1600/Greenland-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ_fNy8rPfVZEhQYqYC2lxiu5QhE19CASWHFK6EiYGhP2tkBq5TbkEC2aefoaCPjG74HL_Z3RKZQkDD2g6xFKOmXtHMc0lMWaDQfqznZ6bEQgLJHtNQ2tomojNi3LcmzsDMKjSDr7D7-go/s320/Greenland-4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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But ominous looking grey cloud boiling about the summit of Illerfissalik
across the fjord suggests otherwise. We have each just consumed a delicious freeze
dried chicken korma with rice (a high energy pack with 800 calorie serving) by
<i>Expedition Foods</i>, a British company whose products we highly recommend, and are
sipping hot mugs of spicy ginger tea when large raindrops begin to fall and the
wind begins to gust. Safely inside our tent cocooned deep within our warm and
cosy sleeping bags by the time the full force of the storm hits, we listen to
the rain lashing against the canvas which is being buffeted noisily by the wind.
Despite the din, I soon fall fast asleep. </div>
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<h3>
<b><span style="color: #990000;">Of Scarps and Sheep</span></b></h3>
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The rain of the night has long abated and I poke my head out
of the tent to an unclouded periwinkle blue sky above a landscape flooded with
brilliant sunshine. Last night’s wind has scattered the icebergs in the fjord;
many smaller ones have been beached on the pebbly shore below our camp, while the
larger ones have been pushed up the Tunulliarfik Fjord towards Narsarsuaq. The
smell of wood smoke perfumes the air as Martin tends to the Honey stove,
boiling water for a welcome mug of coffee.</div>
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The air is clean and fresh as we begin the descent along the
unmade road down to the small farming community of Issormiut, comprised of a
couple of wooden farmhouses, a small jetty and two large sheep
sheds, one of which is disused. Rows of newly cut grass lying in a large meadow
scent the air, but apart from one sheep dog lying in the dirt which rises silently
to its feet and eyes us keenly as we pass by on the stony track, the place
seems deserted.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDi6L5NFx_PhGbNYZ5nEjfZa-mxVG-_kbrLT6kopdB6E9TpyotGNv6OvL_FiKfKUeOIv90zSE_2Jt6n2a-Z_u4VQ_GRtJlfrobRpsxA9BPKZ6wGDswzT2FFWGkelKrwJd0nH5QscIz94A2/s1600/Blog+pictures-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDi6L5NFx_PhGbNYZ5nEjfZa-mxVG-_kbrLT6kopdB6E9TpyotGNv6OvL_FiKfKUeOIv90zSE_2Jt6n2a-Z_u4VQ_GRtJlfrobRpsxA9BPKZ6wGDswzT2FFWGkelKrwJd0nH5QscIz94A2/s320/Blog+pictures-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Ahead I can see the faint outline of a mast standing proud
of a prominent escarpment with columns of basalt sitting atop beds of sandstone
like a thick pie crust. The route apparently passes to the right of the mast
which looks a long way off and involves an ascent of over 700 metres. Below we
can see the brightly painted farm houses of the small community of Sillisit.
Upon approaching the settlement, it is unclear where the route goes. The road
we’re on passes into a field in front of a property with a large tractor
outside, but we are leery of opening the gate as the field contains a horse and
a dog sleeping in the dust near the house. A child’s swing emits a periodic
metallic squeak as it moves in the wind, breaking the somewhat unnerving
silence. There isn’t a soul around to ask for directions, so we thread our way
along a thin strip of land beyond the field above a pebbly beach, clambering
over another makeshift fence into a neighbouring field, being careful not to
collide with items of rusting farm machinery hidden in long grass. We
eventually rejoin the road at the other side of the settlement. I wonder where
all the people are? There is no sign of anyone working in the fields which have
been recently mown and the huge bales of silage wrapped in white plastic gleam
in the Arctic sun. Perhaps they are out at sea fishing?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6Z3TYsgP6UFa09vzCpPeG4d1oevJaRQpluAPwylYD_8XrDuuY7Z48aTYhTaMMvGFRAxUdk60AiFZ3SBCz_u5F2kUIlHgZayO5yckEsRR64vRmeEbAgXIgDVnwgCXc6HHdiMNX2M63h8H/s1600/Blog+pictures-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6Z3TYsgP6UFa09vzCpPeG4d1oevJaRQpluAPwylYD_8XrDuuY7Z48aTYhTaMMvGFRAxUdk60AiFZ3SBCz_u5F2kUIlHgZayO5yckEsRR64vRmeEbAgXIgDVnwgCXc6HHdiMNX2M63h8H/s320/Blog+pictures-4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Once past Sillisit, the road climbs steeply and becomes very
rough underfoot before it peters out. Huge globular heads of angelica rise above the rest of the
herbage at the side of the track. The day is hot and oppressive as white wispy
cloud begins to stealthily cover the sky and we pause for lunch by a lake
before climbing ever upwards over a series of small, rugged plateaus peppered
with lakes. Huge leathery mushrooms dot the ground and scrubby bilberry bushes
abound. Eventually the terrain steepens as we approach the final wall of basalt
that will take us to the very top of the escarpment where we intend to camp.
Fortunately a well defined sheep track appears which provides an easy ascent
past patches of dirty snow, while ever improving views of the inland ice sheet and its glaciers that have unleashed a gigantic flotsam and jetsam of ice into the turquoise fjords, open before us. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRb9VUPcWc5-WFyB3gwN6CdxxBXhUE7L9MBMAJTpclfngknLo2zdKDXzwm3sXjEF2GLuEfs27HcgQP-GRiN9XTwVzKOV0-iE7yULODQ-Oc2FGyFS8qCREk9_fNiJ0ORXyMeICRGPNkuwBj/s1600/Blog+pictures-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRb9VUPcWc5-WFyB3gwN6CdxxBXhUE7L9MBMAJTpclfngknLo2zdKDXzwm3sXjEF2GLuEfs27HcgQP-GRiN9XTwVzKOV0-iE7yULODQ-Oc2FGyFS8qCREk9_fNiJ0ORXyMeICRGPNkuwBj/s320/Blog+pictures-5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Atop the escarpment we select a camp site near a lake with
grandstand views of the ice cap and the Sermiat Glacier spreading down towards
the sea like a frigid finger. After scouring the area for some wood to light
our Honey stove, we sit inside the open tent sipping Brennivín and watching the
sky grow salmon pink behind the ice cap with its prominent nunataks, as the sun
sets over the high ground behind us. The mercury quickly plummets, the night
chill sending us scurrying into our sleeping bags with our freeze dried dinners.</div>
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<h3>
<b><span style="color: #990000;">The plateau of a hundred
lakes</span></b></h3>
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It’s another glorious day as I poke my head out of our tent,
my nostrils assailed by the smell of wood smoke mingled with bog. I stroll down
to the lake to sip my coffee on a ledge of rock overlooking it. The surface of
the water is mirror flat and is such a deep blue, it looks as if it has
swallowed the entire sky. The sun is warm on my back and it’s so quiet you
could hear a pin drop. I might believe that we are the only two people left in
the world, were it not for the white contrails that rent the sky, betraying the
passage of countless jets en route to and from <st1:place w:st="on">North
America</st1:place>. They periodically disturb the deep silence with a grating
roar. Even in the <st1:place w:st="on">Greenland</st1:place> wilderness it’s
impossible to truly escape the modern world. I smile as I think of the
passengers availing of the drinks trolley aboard the A380 that is glinting in
the fierce sunlight as it speeds high above me, while I struggle to swallow
another mouthful of tasteless scrambled eggs with potatoes, the only packet of
freeze dried food I dislike in the <i>Expedition Foods</i> range.</div>
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We break camp striding out over the paper dry green and black lichen interspersed
with ankle high dwarf willow, crowberry and bilberry. Ahead we can finally
see the snow streaked Ilímaussaq Mountains that we will
pass through before we reach Narsaq. Looking at the map, today’s route seems to
take us over easier terrain across a high plateau peppered with hundreds of
lakes and ponds, before what appears to be a gradual 400 metre descent to an emergency
hut, but knowing Greenland this is likely to be deceptive! After yesterday’s
long slog up from Sillisit, the passage across the plateau is pleasant. The
mid-morning reflections of snow capped Illerfissalik and neighbouring mountains
across the Tunulliarfik Fjord reflected in a pan flat lake are truly enchanting. Cotton grass sways languidly above patches of sphagnum moss as soft as a cushion,<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "austin news text roman" , "georgia" , "times" , serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 25px;"> </span>and small sugar pink flowers peek out from amid the pale green foliage of dwarf willow.</div>
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Passing by a cluster of lakes, we begin to drop
down off the plateau making for the bottom of a broad valley that eventually leads
down towards the small settlement of Ipiutaq on the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">shore</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Tunulliarfik Fjord</st1:placename></st1:place>.
According to the map, the emergency hut is situated almost straight ahead of us
across a river which we can see glinting in the sunlight. Try as we might, we
can’t see the hut which appears to be camouflaged against the landscape. The
river does not look very far, but a combination of the clear Arctic air which
makes landmarks appear deceptively close, and the undulating landscape which
entails continual climbing up and down over rocky knolls and outcrops, means it
is several kilometres further than it looks.</div>
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We cross numerous small streams conveying snow melt from
higher ground, stopping often to splash our faces with the cool, refreshing
water and to pick large juicy bilberries which are abundant on the south
facing sunny slopes. One of these streams has carved a tunnel through a patch
of deep compacted snow stubbornly clinging to the shady side of a rocky
outcrop. The walls and roof of the snow tunnel tinged turquoise, have been
carved into scallop-shaped patterns by the passage of the running water.
Dodging tiny rivulets of water cascading down over the entrance from the
melting snow, I climb inside to see the shimmering reflections cast onto the
roof by the water flowing beneath.</div>
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We finally spot the square outline of the hut perched on a
hillock above the river and this spurs us on under the relentless late
afternoon sun. As we approach the river we can hear it roaring over rocks and
boulders and instinctively know that this will be a boots off crossing! The
river is knee deep and fast flowing where it has formed channels around
boulders, and we look for a place where it is shallow enough to cross safely.
Donning our plastic crocs and with boots hanging round our necks, we enter the
icy water, threading our way around and over boulders to the opposite bank.
From here it’s about 100 metres to the hut. </div>
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Made of plywood painted a shade of rust that the brutal
Arctic winters have weathered away leaving it distinctly piebald in places, the
small hut with the number 1366, has a sloping flat roof with a door and a
single square window. A crude fire ring with faint traces of dull grey ashes is
sited not far from the door. Propped up nearby is the rather macabre sight of a
sheep’s skull with an enormous pair of curved horns. A strange welcome indeed! The
musty smelling hut is unoccupied and as we haven’t seen a soul since the first
day, the chances of anyone else coming here tonight are slim.</div>
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Inside we are greeted by a plywood sleeping platform and a bare earthen floor,
damp from water that has seeped under the walls. Below the sleeping
platform, a faded tent caked in mud lies abandoned, and a pile of beer cans and
rusting sardine tins have been discarded in a corner. There isn’t even a
candle, a box of matches or any wood left here for emergency purposes and the sleeping
platform is dusty and dirty. This emergency hut is obviously not well maintained
and we debate whether to erect the tent rather than sleep in such unpleasant
surroundings. After much discussion and prevaricating we make the fateful
decision to stay in the hut.</div>
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I remain inside the hut to inflate our sleeping mats and
make up our beds, away from the mosquitoes that have appeared to welcome us,
while Martin goes down to the river to collect water for cooking. There’s plenty
of dried wood in the vicinity for our stove and more than enough for a fire,
but the sun has gone down behind the mountains opposite and a chill breeze is
blowing up the valley from the fjord. Eschewing a camp fire, we retire to the
hut with our freeze dried dinners and hip flasks of Brennivín, to settle in for
the night.</div>
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I can’t remember passing a more uncomfortable night in a hut
anywhere in the world. The plywood sleeping platform has a slight slope and
being fairly smooth there isn’t sufficient friction to prevent my sleeping mat
from sliding down towards the earthen floor. Several times I awake to reposition
myself to grumbles from Martin who, finally exasperated at my periodic cursing,
is even prepared to get up and erect our tent! Despite hardly moving a muscle, it’s
impossible to prevent the inevitable downward slide. I sleep fitfully and can’t
wait for the morning to come so we can leave this wretched hovel! </div>
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<h3>
<b><span style="color: #990000;">Onward and Upward</span></b></h3>
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My legs are dangling off the platform when I awake to a
chorus of birdsong, and my yellow sleeping mat is now filthy from having
migrated all night around its dirty surface. Escaping the musty hut to sit
outside in the sun flooded landscape feeding the Honey stove with bits of wood
is a real pleasure. It’s another glorious day with hardly a breath of wind, but
the odd mosquito is already about making repellent a must. Following breakfast we
break camp heading uphill to a rocky ramp that we will use to contour around
the mountain opposite. The view of the hut from hell receding from view gives
me a smug sense of satisfaction!</div>
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However, we soon run into thickets of waist high dwarf
willow that we have to bushwhack through which is tedious to say the least, and
the humidity makes the going tough. A sudden thrashing and whirl of brown and
white feathers signals a startled ptarmigan which darts across our path on to
some nearby rocks. We soon spy two more and give chase to try and capture them
on video. But they’re far faster than us over this unforgiving terrain and we
soon give up!</div>
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The willow finally gives way to a rocky track way so narrow
it seems to have been made by a one legged sheep, which wends its way around
the side of the mountain, and we make good speed at last. Panoramic views of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Nunasarnaq</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place> and Tunulliarfik Fjord now open
before us and we spot numerous wildflowers, including buttercups, hawkweed,
cinquefoil and the rare white gentian. A gentle ascent from a boggy bowl brings
us onto another plateau and Martin takes a bearing to ensure we are on the
route crudely indicated on our map.</div>
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We soon pass a solitary cairn of basalt stone which seems to
indicate we’re on the right track. The terrain hereabouts makes for easier
trekking, comprised in the main of wiry grass and desiccated lichen, with
patches of crowberry and bilberry sporting deep purple berries, and the few river crossings
we have to negotiate are by and large simple, the torrent of the early summer
snow-melt long dried up. We stop for a leisurely lunch above a lake fed by a
small waterfall, its musical cadence the only sound save for the occasional
chirping of meadow pipits and lapwing buntings. I gather the tinder dry sun
bleached twigs and small branches of juniper and willow to light the Honey
stove to boil water for spicy ginger tea and a packet of freeze dried Asian
noodles with beef and vegetables. This is followed by a dessert of nature’s
bounty: handfuls of foraged sweet bilberries.</div>
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Refreshed, we set off on the next part of the route which begins
to climb towards higher ground. Fabulous views of the distinctive Killavaat
Mountain Range come into view which we had admired from helicopter en route
from Qaqortoq to Narsarsuaq a few days ago. Killavaat means ‘the Comb’ in Greenlandic,
and the line of crested granite peaks do indeed resemble the teeth of a comb.
After a couple of hours we meet a river cascading swiftly down over the Gardar
lava from the high mountains to the north. It’s crystal clear and we stop to
drink from it and to sit awhile by a series of waterfalls enjoying the cooling
effect of the rushing water. Ahead of us we have a long steep climb to a lake around
the 700 metre mark where we intend to camp tonight.</div>
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Bright pink patches of fireweed and other vegetation peters
out as we commence our ascent. Sheep tracks now seem to be non-existent, so we pick our
way tentatively around numerous boulders and up over shelves of rock. The views
down into the valley we have just crossed are stupendous. After what seems like
an eternity, the gradient begins to ease and we contour around a shelf of rock
above a small stream that passes through a pronounced gap in the mountainside
that is indicated on our map. Beyond should be the lake we are aiming to camp
by.</div>
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Before long we spy the snow encrusted eastern shore of the
lake which lies still and mysterious in the shadow of the mountain beyond. By
now it’s Brennivín time and our shadows lie long across the ground as we climb
away from the boulder strewn lake shore seeking a suitable place to pitch our
tent. We soon find an absolutely perfect spot on a flat grassy ledge below a
rocky outcrop that provides plenty of shelter, and a grandstand view down over
the lake and the snow covered col that we will climb tomorrow morning.</div>
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Tent pitched and beds made, we fire up the MSR stove, erect
our stools and sit outside to sip our Brennivín, watching the golden orb of the
sun slip down behind the peaks of the Ilímaussaq Mountains. Martin is
eagerly awaiting our traverse of this geologically significant landscape and
spends some time reading up on what we will encounter en route to Narsaq. My
belly full of macaroni cheese, Expedition Food’s best meal by a long chalk, I curl
up inside my sleeping bag to listen to some music, before falling fast asleep. </div>
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<h3>
<b><span style="color: #990000;">Walking in a
Geological Wonderland</span></b></h3>
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We are treated to a stunning tangerine orange sky at dawn
before the rising sun erupts over the mountain peaks across the Tunulliarfik
Fjord, bathing the landscape in a golden glow. Breakfasting on porridge with
sultanas, we sit outside the tent enjoying the view down onto the lake now
gleaming aquamarine in the sunlight. Up here there are virtually no mosquitoes,
unlike down by the hut from hell. It’s too cold for them at this altitude, as
we are not far from the 800m <st1:city w:st="on">high
point</st1:city> of the trek at the top of the col we will soon
be climbing.</div>
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I’m quite sorry to leave such a perfect camping spot, but we
have a long way to trek today through the <st1:placename w:st="on">Ilímaussaq</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountains</st1:placetype> to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Kvanefjeld</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>
on the other side. We thread our way along the shore of the lake and begin the
ascent up the col. Deep patches of snow cling stubbornly to the ground making
the going far easier as we don’t have to traverse the angular boulders beneath.
We don’t see any footprints or holes left by walking poles, and it looks as if
we are the first to come this way this summer. </div>
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We finally reach the top of the col, still deep with
compacted snow. We spend half an hour messing around throwing snowballs at each
other and posing for the camera. Beyond, the landscape changes abruptly as the
route enters a high mountainous area almost devoid of vegetation. This is the Ilímaussaq
igneous complex – a series of rare intrusive igneous rocks - which once formed
the cores of volcanoes resulting from continental rifting (much like the
present day Eastern African Rift), and which have been exposed by subsequent
erosion. The deep cores of volcanoes are rarely seen in the world and the Ilímaussaq
complex is considered the best example.</div>
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For a geologist like Martin this is a wonderland, as it
contains scores of exciting and unusual rock types and minerals. But it’s also
of great economic interest, as uranium ores and several rare earth elements
(REE) are present in
economically viable quantities in some areas. At present <st1:country-region w:st="on">China</st1:country-region> is the
main source of REE, valuable minerals in the electronics industry, and has virtually monopolised the trade. At Kvanefjeld in
the northwestern part of the Ilímaussaq complex, a deposit containing uranium and
thorium in lujavrites was discovered in 1956 and subsequently investigated by
drilling programmes. An exploratory mine was dug in the late-1970s’s, but was
abandoned shortly after when <st1:country-region w:st="on">Denmark</st1:country-region> (the colonial power) decided against utilising nuclear energy. We hope to be able to visit this mine
tomorrow.</div>
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<st1:place w:st="on">Greenland</st1:place> had a zero
tolerance policy towards uranium mining for some 25 years, but a fiscal
shortfall and a struggling economy saw this policy recently overturned. The
issue has split Greenlandic society. On the one hand there are those who wish
to promote mining and oil exploration in order to bring large profits to
stimulate the country’s sluggish economy, deeply dependent on fisheries and
tourism, which might pave the way to independence from <st1:country-region w:st="on">Denmark</st1:country-region>. They
are pitted against those who do not want possible contamination and landscape degradation
from the mining of toxic minerals in the pristine Arctic environment, and a
large and potentially destabilising influx of foreign workers. </div>
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Although all major political parties in <st1:place w:st="on">Greenland</st1:place>
support the development of a mining industry, the two main parties remain divided
on the issue of uranium mining, with the leftist opposition party, Inuit Ataqatigiit, the main voice of those who say ‘Naamik’ (no) to uranium mining on environmental grounds. The current government is facing some
difficult decisions. Some MPs are pushing for <st1:place w:st="on">Southern
Greenland</st1:place> to be designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site entitled
Church ruin at Hvalsø, episcopal residence at Gardar and Brattahlid
(A Norse/Eskimo cultural landscape) for its 1000 years of agriculture dating
back to the time of Erik the Red. This was included in the World Heritage
Tentative List in 2003.</div>
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But mining for the wealth of minerals - including uranium –
in the area would preclude that designation. Large areas around Narsaq and
Qaqortoq were included in the World Heritage bid, which unleashed protests from
interested parties because the Raw Materials Directorate had already issued numerous
drilling licences within those areas. Now the government is proposing that only
five small ‘islands’ be included as a potential World Heritage Site to avoid conflict with the
mining companies and other interested parties. One thing’s for sure – if the
mining goes ahead, the route we are presently travelling will be inside some of
the licensed areas and that will surely signal an end to trekking across Eric the Red's Land.</div>
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The descent from the col is very steep over compacted snow
that then gives way to patchy grass covered scree. The nearby bare mountain slopes
of Nakaalaaq contain rich shades of calamine pink and steel grey which contrast
with the deep blue sky. Way off in the distance we can see the ridge we have to
cross over to descend into a broad valley containing <st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Taseq</st1:placename> above the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Kvanefjeld</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
To reach it we must contour round the head of the valley below Nakaalaaq,
crossing a small river tumbling down from the mountain, and then ascend a steep
scree covered slope. The sun beats down mercilessly and the heat radiates back
off the bare rock making the slog up the scree slope very tiring indeed. We
stop from time to time for Martin to examine rocks looking for the semi-precious,
very rare, pink coloured mineral tugtupite. No luck with the tugtupite, but he
finds good samples of augite, eudialyte and steenstrupine which disappear into
his rucksack!</div>
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Atop the steadily rising ridge, the views down towards
Tunulliarfik Fjord and the inlet below <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Nunasarnaq</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
said to be a great place to catch Arctic char, are spectacular. The fjord
dotted with gleaming white icebergs is the most vivid shade of aquamarine imaginable, beyond which the comb-shaped granite peaks of Killavaat rise majestically into a speedwell blue sky. To the left, the snow-capped peaks of scores of smoky blue
mountains retreat into the distance. We dump our packs and recline on a shelf
of rock to savour the sheer beauty of southern <st1:place w:st="on">Greenland</st1:place>.</div>
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The steep descent from the ridge into the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Taseq</st1:placename></st1:place>
valley takes longer than anticipated due to the brutal nature of the terrain.
We have to traverse several ravines, scramble over jagged boulders and contour loose
scree above sheer drops. Mentally and physically fatigued, we pause for lunch in
a ravine where a partially snow covered river tumbles down noisily from the
mountains. The water is so cold it makes my head ache when I drink it! Suitably
refreshed, we push on and eventually arrive safely on the gently sloping ground
above two metallic green coloured lakes above <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Taseq</st1:placename></st1:place>.</div>
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A series of <st1:city w:st="on">cairns</st1:city> with red
and white circular markings suddenly make an appearance as we head for <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Taseq</st1:placename></st1:place>
which occupies most of the bottom of the valley and is hemmed in by mountains
on three sides. A river leads out of the far western end of the lake which the
map shows flowing over a waterfall in a branch of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Narsaq</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
The route does not take us near the falls, but round the northern shore across
patches of sly bog where deep purple butterwort dance on slender stems. The
lake is the largest we have encountered, about 2.5 km long, and is the
reservoir for the town of <st1:city w:st="on">Narsaq</st1:city>.
As a result, no camping is permitted in its vicinity, not that this matters as
I do not see one suitable camping spot, the ground sloping down to the shore
being littered with boulders and stones. Apparently, if mining goes ahead at
nearby Kvanefjeld, the waste materials left behind after flotation will be
dewatered and stored in a tailings facility here at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Taseq</st1:placename></st1:place>,
meaning this beautiful lake will be turned into a dump site. It’s hardly
surprisingly that many local people are opposed to the uranium mine; it will
totally and irretrievably alter this magnificent environment on their very
doorstep.</div>
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A short ascent up a bank of moraine near the western end of
the lake brings us to a ridge overlooking the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Kvanefjeld</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
There is no discernable trail, the descent is hideously steep in places and we
have to cross several patches of compacted, treacherous snow. By now I’m
feeling very tired and my left hip joint is beginning to throb due to the
weight of my rucksack. Today has undoubtedly been the toughest of the trek and I’m
mightily relieved when we finally decide to stop and make camp for the night.
We find a flattish pitch close to a small stream of water that is fed by snow
melt. It’s not a good idea to drink from a spring or seepage in this area due
to the high levels of fluorine in the water emanating from the underlying
bedrock.</div>
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Some 400 m away from our campsite is the Narsaq River which
we can hear clearly, and across from this we can see a zig-zag road leading up to
the abandoned Kvanefjeld uranium mine, betrayed by plumes of spoil that spill
down the hillside. Near the start of the mine road are a series of black mineral
piles which Martin is itching to inspect! From the porch of our tent
we have a stunning view of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Narsaq</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Bay</st1:placetype></st1:place> stuffed full of
icebergs. Purple harebells nod in the gentle evening breeze as we eat our
dinner and sip the last of our Brennivín, watching the setting sun turn the sky
above the bay apricot, salmon pink and finally chalky mauve. Martin convinces
me that tomorrow he will find a specimen of tugtupite at the mine. I hope he
makes his discovery quickly as I do not relish the thought of spending all day
fossicking for minerals!!</div>
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<h3>
<b><span style="color: #990000;">Searching for 'Reindeer Blood' </span></b></h3>
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We have been remarkably lucky with the weather on this trek
so far, and unbelievably, another warm sunny day greets us as I poke my head
out of the tent to see wall to wall blue sky. Martin is a man on a mission today
and there is a sense of purpose in his actions. I’d like to think it’s because
it’s the last day of the trek and he’s looking forward to returning to
civilisation, but I know it’s really all about his eagerness to get up to the
mine!!</div>
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We break camp for the last time, heading downhill towards
the river. Swiftly flowing and deep, this could prove to be a real challenge to
cross and we begin to scout the banks looking for a safe place. Fortunately, we
spot a dilapidated plywood bridge where the river is braided. This traverses
the main river channel, and we carefully make our way over some slimy rocks in
a side channel to reach it. Once across, we make for a huge boulder where we
conceal our packs and set off with just our valuables and some water for the
hike up to the mine.</div>
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Having shed my 18 kilo plus rucksack, I feel like I’m floating
on air as we make the 200 metre ascent up to the mine entrance. The 1.5 km road is in
poor condition having been disused for almost 40 years, and has been washed out
in places leaving deep channels, although a 4X4 would still be able to drive
it. As we ascend, a view of the Narsaq glacier between the Ilímaussaq and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Nakkaalaaq</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountains</st1:placetype></st1:place> comes into view. This glacier,
like many others in <st1:place w:st="on">Greenland</st1:place>, is retreating
at a very fast rate, so that in a couple of decades it will no longer exist. </div>
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After 20 minutes, we arrive at the entrance to the 970 metre
long adit that has been driven through the central part of the Kvanefjeld
deposit and which is sited some 100-150 metres below the surface of the plateau
above. Unsurprisingly, the entrance has been blocked up and the metal door in
the centre welded shut to prevent people accessing the workings and being
exposed to harmful levels of radioactive air. Martin can’t resist the urge to
scramble higher up onto the plateau area to inspect the geology looking for tugtupite,
but comes back empty handed!</div>
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Reunited with our rucksacks, we head across to where
approximately 15,000 tons of ore was placed in a series of piles awaiting
shipment to <st1:country-region w:st="on">Denmark</st1:country-region>,
but never left the site after the country decided against the use of nuclear
power. The piles of black ore bear all the hallmarks of being avidly picked
over by mineral collectors seeking tugtupite and other specimens. Martin
explains that the black rock is lujavrite which is composed mostly of black
arfvedsonite amphibole. It also contains crystals of the mineral steenstrupine
- a sodium silicate mineral which contains trace uranium, thorium and caesium.
It also contains several REE which is why the license
for the Kvanefjeld deposit is currently held by Australian mining company,
Greenland Minerals and Energy Ltd. (GMEL), which, in collaboration with a
Chinese company, wants to recommence mining here.</div>
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The sun is hot on my shoulders as I wander over the piles
scanning the black rock for a flash of pink that might be tugtupite. The valley
is eerily quiet, the only sound the rushing river and Martin chucking rocks
about nearby. Suddenly my eye alights on a rose pink shade amid some black and
grey crystals. I stroll over to Martin and show him. He casts me a sheepish
look and mumbles, ‘well it might be tugtupite I suppose’, to which I let out a
celebratory ‘yeah’ and punch the air with my fist. He does not look amused and
spends the next 15 minutes ardently searching, before he has his own eureka
moment!!</div>
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Tugtupite was first discovered in 1962 at Tugtup agtakôrfia
and is derived from the Inuit word ‘tuttu’ (reindeer) meaning ‘reindeer blood’.
This predominantly pink coloured mineral is extremely rare worldwide, being
confirmed in two other locations in <st1:state w:st="on">Quebec</st1:state> and
<st1:country-region w:st="on">Russia</st1:country-region>,
and is therefore sought after by mineral and gemstone collectors. It is often
polished and fashioned into items of jewellery, and is an interesting feature
of the local economy. Our specimens aren’t fabulous, but we are contented with
our finds as we set off down the dusty dirt road towards <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Narsaq</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Bay</st1:placetype></st1:place>.</div>
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The dirt track slowly descends 300 metres back to sea level parallel
to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Narsaq</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place> and makes for monotonous, if far
easier walking. We finally get a view of the falls at the end of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Tarsaq</st1:placename></st1:place>
and the first signs of civilisation appear in the form of fences, mown fields
and weather board farm houses and sheds. A jeep approaches us, its Inuit
occupants waving cheerily as they pass us in a cloud of choking dust. We cross
a rickety metal bridge over the Narsaq River which has obviously been patched
up several times after being washed away in floods, and soon reach the coast
where carpets of mauve harebells frame stupendous views of the bay crammed full
of turquoise and white icebergs. </div>
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The pungent smell of sea and seaweed assails my nostrils and
a refreshing breeze blows in off the bay where flocks of seagulls shriek nosily above the icebergs. Several of these have beached and warrant closer inspection.
One almost as tall as me is mushroom shaped by the action of water when it was
at sea. All are melting rapidly in the strong afternoon sun. Every so often a
noise like a musket shot echoes round the bay as an iceberg calves. We sit
awhile to soak in the tremendous atmosphere before hitting the outskirts of
Narsaq.<br />
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A fishing settlement of just over 1,500 inhabitants,
Narsaq is situated on a plain at the foot of a 685 metre mountain named
Qaqqarsuaq which towers over the colourful weatherboard buildings which look like the spilled contents of a box of <i>Quality Street</i>. It’s a great feeling after slogging over some
of the roughest terrain imaginable to finally walk on a tarmac road and we make
good speed though the streets of brightly coloured houses looking
for the <i>Narsaq Hotel</i> where we hope to get a room.</div>
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A mustard yellow building finally looms into view, the flags
of Greenland, Demark and Iceland fluttering above it. Although there are no rooms available at the hotel, we are
in luck as there’s room at the nearby hostel the hotel runs. A large turquoise well
kept and well appointed building, we get a spacious room overlooking the
harbour with great vistas of the iceberg strewn Narsaq Sound.</div>
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The hotel runs a café come restaurant which is quite
bohemian, featuring white painted car tyres for tables, preserving jars
turned into lamps, and benches strewn with colourful scatter cushions. We join a cosmopolitan
crowd of tourists and locals for dinner as this seems to be the only joint in
town where you can get an evening meal. A large beef steak, chips and salad,
washed down by a cool beer, is much anticipated, but turns out to be something
of a disappointment. The steak is overcooked for our liking, the chips dry, the
salad limp and there are no Greenlandic beers available, only vapid <i>Tuborg
</i>lager beer which is cold if nothing else. However, I’m delighted to learn from
the owner that he is brewing his own craft ale named after Tugtupite, but
galled to discover that I have missed the first batch by a mere fortnight!!!</div>
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The following day we catch a ferry back up the picturesque
Tunulliarfik Fjord to Narsarsuaq which is the perfect end to a fabulous trip. From
the water we have the opportunity to spot some of the landmarks we had trekked
over and past during the last week. Although by no means easy, this
6-day 70 km trek was far less an ordeal than the one we did further south in
Klosterdalen, Tasermiut Fjord, as it has less dwarf trees to bushwhack through
and very few mosquitoes or midges. Moreover, it has fascinating history and
geology and the scenery is just as ravishing. With the added bonus of being
close to the international airport at Narsarsuaq which keeps the cost of
helicopter travel and/or boat transfers down, this route is a must for those
who wish to experience a truly memorable multi-day trek in the <st1:place w:st="on">Greenland</st1:place> wilderness. </div>
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Watch our video of this trek at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5fSwxha_wvg</div>
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Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-90004484096252228082015-09-13T14:33:00.000-07:002017-02-25T15:20:49.859-08:00Through a Net, Dimly: Wilderness Trekking in Klosterdalen, Tasermiut Fjord, Greenland<h3>
<b><span style="color: #990000;">Into the Wilderness</span></b></h3>
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‘I can’t stand the heat,’ came the surprise answer to my
question as to why on earth a Spaniard would want to spend the summer up in <st1:place w:st="on">Greenland</st1:place>. José is a jovial fellow who works for the
Tasermiut South Greenland Expeditions tour company through which we have
arranged a rib boat transfer up the Tasermiut Fjord to spend some days
wilderness trekking in a remote valley named Klosterdalen. He and numerous other
Spaniards head north to work for this company during the brief Arctic summer.
Each to his own I guess! Living in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region>,
where summer this year has been an even more complete wash-out than usual, hot and sunny Andalusia, where José hails from, seems infinitely more attractive than <st1:place w:st="on">Greenland</st1:place> to me!</div>
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Perched awkwardly on the side of the bright orange rib boat
in an immersion suit which feels something akin to a straitjacket, our boat glides
out of Nanortalik harbour, the southernmost town in Greenland, which is located
on an island of the same name, that rather worryingly comes from the
Greenlandic, meaning ‘place where polar bears meet’. It soon picks up speed as
it races into the open waters of the freezing Arctic Ocean past icebergs the
size of houses, before turning into the Tasermiut Fjord. José assures us with a
chuckle that the chance of spotting a polar bear round here is next to zero,
but we should be more concerned about smaller life forms, in this case,
insects. How prescient his words were to prove…</div>
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As we enter the fjord, our eyes are overloaded by utterly face
slapping scenery. Lofty mountains streaked with snow lift their granite heads
into a speedwell blue sky, shimmering waterfalls tumble headlong down vertical rocky
walls sculpted by glaciers that have laid bare their geology, and turquoise
rivers spill out of surprisingly verdant valleys. Salt laden wind streams
though my hair as the boat smacks its way across the petrol blue water shimmering
in the strong Arctic sunlight. I am suddenly overwhelmed by the exhilarating feeling
of freedom. We pass numerous icebergs in shades of turquoise and electric blue,
close enough to see the shady mass that lurks well below the water line and as
we progress deeper into the fjord, the landscape becomes increasingly wild and epic.
Rocky pinnacles thrust heavenward every way you look and I spot the iconic chimney shape of Ulamertorsuaq (The Great Cylinder), a 1,858 metre granite
monolith first conquered in 1977 and beyond it, Nalumasortoq, a distinctive
mountain that looks like an open book.</div>
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Some 60 km and almost 2 hours later, we arrive at the
seaweed strewn shoreline of the small beach at the entrance of the
Klosterdalen, so named as Norse monks founded an Augustinian monastery here in
the tenth century. I can’t imagine anyone wishing to live in such a wild and remote
place which experiences deep cold and short hours of daylight during the brutally
long Arctic winter. We disembark to words of encouragement and a cheery wave
goodbye from José. I watch with a feeling of mild euphoria as the rib boat speeds
off down the fjord, its roar and foaming wake receding until we are entirely alone
in this spell binding wilderness. Dreams are made of moments like this.</div>
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We struggle with our heavy backpacks up a steep gravel bank
to high ground which will ensure we are safe from any unexpected tsunami caused
by the calving of ice from the Sermeq glacier with its two prominent nunataks
which we can see at the head of the fjord. Amazingly, this huge wall of ice is
over 15 kilometres from us and over twice the height of the world’s tallest
skyscraper, the Burj Khalifa in Dubai, yet
looks not much further than a couple of kilometres, so clear is the Arctic air.</div>
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We find a level camping spot which offers breathtaking views
down over the fjord, the Sermeq glacier flowing down from the inland ice sheet and a near 360 degree panorama of
mountains which includes Ketil, a 2,003 metre granite monolith with a sheer
western rock face to challenge that of El Capitan in Yosemite or the Torres del
Paine in Patagonia, which have attracted some of the world’s top climbers.
Ketil has yet to achieve that level of international fame, as big wall climbing and adventure tourism
is still very much in its nascence here. We scour the area for wood which is surprisingly
abundant and comprised mainly of the bleached branches of dwarf willow, birch
and juniper, and, after erecting our tent, we settle in for the evening round a
roaring camp fire. As volleys of sparks ascend into a deepening blue sky, we scoff
a packet of dried expedition food and enjoy a wee dram of <i>Tullamore Dew</i>, purchased in <st1:city w:st="on">Reykjavik</st1:city>’s
duty free, to toast our arrival in this awesome wilderness. By degrees, the sun
descends lower in the sky casting a deep rose pink glow over the mountains at
the head of the Klosterdalen and catches the wispy cloud racing up over the
face of Ketil marshmallow pink. Although it is hot and balmy by day, anywhere
from 15-20 degrees Celsius, as soon as the sun sets the mercury plummets to
near freezing and we beat a hasty retreat to our tent.</div>
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<h3>
<b><span style="color: #990000;">The <st1:placename w:st="on">Blair</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Witch</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Forest</st1:placetype> and <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Battle</st1:place></st1:city>
of the Bog</span></b></h3>
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Deep mauve harebells nod in the cool breeze blowing off the
fjord as I slowly sip my coffee. It’s midmorning, the sun is warm on my back
and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. I feel mildly lethargic even though I have
slept like a log in the pure Arctic air, rocked into the arms of Morpheus by
the sound of the Uiluiit Kuua River which drains the valley we are about to
traverse. It’s almost midday when we break camp, faithfully following the route
marked on the 1:100,000 scale Tasermiut Fjorden-Nanortalik map by <st1:city w:st="on">Harvey</st1:city>’s
Map Services, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Scotland</st1:country-region>.</div>
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Epic mistake! This map turns out to be worse than useless,
the route, clearly marked to the south of the Uiluiit Kuua River, leading us almost
immediately straight into dense, almost impenetrable stands of dwarf birch and
willow, most taller than a man. I struggle to remain upright as I clamber over
the gnarled and twisted branches of these trees which spread out along the
ground like malevolent tentacles. It's like something straight out of the Blair Witch Project! The heat and humidity is stifling in this
verdant prison, exacerbated by the fact that I have been forced to don a fleece
and a head net to protect myself against being bitten alive by millions of
midges and mosquitoes, attracted no doubt by the clouds of carbon dioxide we
are exhaling profusely as we strenuously bushwhack our way up through the
valley. In the midst of these trees it’s impossible to see exactly where we’re
going and the GPS does not give accurate readings. Broken branches suggest that
we are not the first to travel this way and this provides some comfort. The
trees don’t yield easily as we push our way forward, their spindly upper
branches clawing and snatching at us like demonic fingers. We are barely making
any headway at all, our passage impeded not just by the trees, but natural
obstacles such as small streams that cut deeply into the landscape and huge
boulders which we must find a way around. Two hours of this insufferable battle
with nature and I feel utterly demoralised and crushed. My wilderness dream begins
to evaporate and expletives replace my earlier euphoric utterances.</div>
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After what seems like an eternity, we emerge from this
hellish jungle bruised and filthy, our clothes holed and frayed, only to
encounter a new obstacle. Boot sucking bog. Living in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region>, we
know all about bog, but Klosterdalen bog is like Irish bog on amphetamines! We make
painfully slow progress, sinking sometimes shin deep into its deceptively soft
mossy surface and before long my boots are soaked through despite my gaiters.
Laborious this might be, but the sight of acres upon acres of dense Arctic bog
cotton, ragged heads bobbing in the slightest of breezes is a sight to leaven
the spirits of even the weariest trekker.</div>
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Bog now gives way to ever more squelchy marshland and then a
couple of lakes. The map instructs us to take a course round the southern edge
of the first lake, the reedy shoreline of which we attempt to follow in order to
avoid another dense area of trees. I almost fall into the water with fright as we startle a
duck which takes off noisily in a flurry of feathers! However, we soon encounter numerous
small streams too wide to jump, which forces us back into the evil arms of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Blair</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Witch</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Forest</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Desperate for a
drink, I carefully loosen and lift the edge of my head net to permit the entry
of my bladder nozzle only to find that scores of midges have somehow managed to
worm their way in and are now settling on my face and are trapped behind my
sunglasses trying to bite round my eyes. In my efforts to stop them feasting on
me, I loose my balance and the weight of my pack causes me to topple over and
become tangled in some branches. At this point, I would happily have been
anywhere than in Klosterdalen!</div>
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Martin frees me and we struggle on up the shoreline of the other lake, finally emerging into
yet more bog. Tired by now from all the bushwhacking, my pack feeling much
heavier than 18 kilos, I trudge along in the mossy morass only to find myself keeling
over as I suddenly sink knee deep. Unable to free myself, I flap and flounder
like a snared waterfowl until Martin once more comes to my rescue, giving me an
almighty tug. The bog releases me with a disgusting sucking sound. I’m now completely
soaked to the skin down my left side and we immediately look for a passage out
of this boggy terrain, making our way towards the river where we are relieved
to find some areas of compacted gravel.</div>
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Although faithfully following the route marked on the map, we have made painfully slow progress through the wretched
terrain of this valley, moving barely 1 km an hour, and as our intended route takes us across the Uiluiit
Kuua River, which we simply don’t fancy in our present state of mind, we’re
both ready to call it a day. We traipse a bit further upriver where we find a
suitable flattish spot near a large fin-shaped granite boulder above the river
bank and set up camp. I retreat into the tent almost immediately to get away
from the midges and mosquitoes and to remove my wet clothing and boots. To my
horror I discover that I have been bitten right along the line of my knickers
on both buttocks, an area to which I had not applied any repellent and that is
now itchy, throbbing and inflamed. I take an anti-histamine to prevent the
allergic reaction I know will surely worsen if untreated. Mosquitoes can bite
right through certain material making it essential to either wear more than one
layer or to lather your skin in repellent. I deeply regret that we did not treat
our trekking clothes with Permethrin before we came to <st1:place w:st="on">Greenland</st1:place>
and, not realising just how bad the insects would be, the realisation sinks in
that we are unlikely to be carrying enough repellent for several days at a
stretch in the wilderness…</div>
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Martin brings me a cup of hot ginger tea which lifts my
spirits a little. A packet of freeze dried macaroni cheese tastes divine and I
greedily scoff the lot. Feeling warm and much more comfortable, I now gaze
through the netting of the tent and soak in the majesty of our surroundings. We
have this lonely, chocolate box pretty valley far from civilisation entirely to
ourselves. We are hemmed in by impressive 1,000 metre plus snow streaked mountains
which seem to be bearing down on our tiny tent, lost in the enormity of it all.
A thrill runs through me. Martin lights a small camp fire, we enjoy another
tipple of our whiskey and watch the mesmerising spectacle of the surrounding
mountains turning ruby red as the sun goes down. </div>
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<h3>
<b><span style="color: #990000;">River Deep and
Mountain High</span></b></h3>
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It’s around 7.30 am when I awake to what sounds like light
rain on the tent. My heart sinks. What a misery it will be to trek uphill today
clad in bloody GoreTex! However, we unzip the exterior tent flaps to see the
mountains draped in veils of mist, no rain. We soon discover that the sound is
caused by thousands of insects hitting the canvas and I can see
the depressing shadow of scores of mosquitoes that have settled on the inner
tent below the flysheet where they are lined up like MiG fighters ready for
another day of warfare! On goes the
repellent.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Martin lights our Honey stove to boil water for coffee and a
freeze dried meal which we have to consume inside the tent, as the swarms of
midges make it impossible to eat or drink outside. I can’t say I’m looking
forward to today all that much, as we have to cross the Uiluiit Kuua River
before we commence a 600 metre climb to a col above this valley through terrain
that looks every bit as brutal as that we covered yesterday.</div>
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Weak sunlight is beginning to filter through the churning
mist as we break camp. It’s going to be another hot, sunny day. We set off up a
rocky scrub covered bank of moraine to avoid the worst of the bog and head towards
a spot just over half a kilometre away above the confluence of the Uiluiit Kuua River and a stream coming down from the col. We aren’t accustomed to river crossings in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region> and I
approach this one with a degree of trepidation. Being quite early in the day,
the river level is at its lowest and we scan the banks looking for a safe place
to cross where the water is not too deep or fast flowing and has not undercut
the bank. We settle on a 20 metre section with a gravel bank midway across which Martin tests before I sally forth. Removing
my boots and socks and putting on a pair of crocs, I roll up my trouser legs, unbuckle my
rucksack and, with my boots hanging round my neck, step tentatively into the
chalky turquoise water. The cold instantly hits me like a sledgehammer! We move
as quickly as possible diagonally downstream through the water which is knee deep in
places. The cold is so intense it seems to be biting into the very marrow of my
bones and I am relieved when we safely splosh out onto a sandy bank on the
other side.</div>
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Re-booted, we now begin the climb uphill towards the col. We
soon run into yet more dense patches of dwarf trees that obscure numerous
boulders comprising terminal morraine that are very tedious to traverse. As we ascend, we gradually pass out
of the trees and keep away from the stream bed where the vegetation is
thickest, opting for higher scrubby ground comprised of shin high dwarf willow
and birch, bilberry, crowberry, juniper and <st1:place w:st="on">Labrador</st1:place>
tea, which sends out a pleasant aromatic smell when brushed against. We see numerous
large brown mushrooms and deep purple berries on the juniper, crowberry and
bilberry bushes. The crowberries are watery and relatively tasteless, but the
bilberries are incredibly sweet.</div>
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Higher up, the scrub becomes ankle high interspersed with
grass and we spot many angelica plants with large globular flower heads. Angelica
has a strong perfumed scent, reminiscent of anise, musk and orange and all
parts of the plant are edible. As we approach the snow line, we notice patches
of Arctic thyme, the pale pink flowers enlivening the landscape as well as the
odd blue gentian. Small green shoots are beginning to sprout amid black and
decaying swathes of last summer’s vegetation only just emerging from beneath patches of
dirty snow which is slowly melting. Spring has come late here.</div>
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The pestilential swarms of midges have now subsided in the
cooler air and we stop by a small stream running beneath a boulder the size of
a house to fire up our MSR stove for lunch. Removing my head net is bliss; the breeze
instantly cools my sweaty face and I can see the immense beauty of the landscape
clearly and not through a net, dimly!</div>
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Bellies full, we now head upwards through a boulder field
which requires care and attention so as not to fall or to succumb to a lower leg injury.
The rocks are angular and sharp to the touch, sporting rough desiccated brown lichen
which scuffs our hands and many of the smaller ones wobble dangerously as I put
my weight on them. Eventually, the ground begins to level out and we arrive at
the col. A small stream of the purest water runs through it and nearby is a
grassy level area that serves as a crude bivvy spot with low rocky walls
offering shelter from the wind and grandstand views down into Klosterdalen and
of the Ketil massif opposite. A more perfect camping spot cannot be imagined! </div>
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We lie in our tent resting and gazing at the iconic
granite monoliths opposite. This part of Greenland has been dubbed the new <st1:place w:st="on">Patagonia</st1:place> for good reason. The massive 2003 metre high northwest
face of Ketil which boasts a vertical granite wall over 1400 metres (the
highest big wall on the globe) has probably only been climbed by a few hundred
people since its discovery in the 1970s. </div>
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The shadows begin to lengthen as we make our way the few
hundred metres down from the col to a deep blue lake nestled in a barren, rocky
amphitheatre surrounded by huge spines of mountains that resemble the armoured
plates on the back of a prehistoric beast. The winter this year was
particularly hard, betrayed by the fact that the lake is still partially frozen
and snow lies feet deep on its western shoreline. A lack of boot prints makes
it clear that no one has been through this col yet this summer. We sit on a
granite boulder, sipping whiskey and watching the soft white cloud boiling
about the mountain tops and sailing across a periwinkle blue sky. A feeling of
utter serenity washes over me and it’s only when the intense cold emanating
from our makeshift seat begins to make me feel decidedly chilly, that we
retreat to our tent to eat dinner and to watch the sunset over Ketil. </div>
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Sipping mugs of hot, spicy ginger tea, we watch long shafts
of hazy sunlight radiate sideways into the valley from behind the Nuussuup
Qaqqaa mountains across the other side of the fjord, its water shining like
liquid mercury. All the small streams, the river, wetland and lakes are luridly lit in the glassy light, clearly illuminating how wet and marshy the valley
bottom is. By degrees the cloud above Ketil turns smoky grey and apricot and
the western sky beyond Nuussuup Qaqqaa screams vermillion, chrome red and saffron
yellow where the sun has set. Ketil responds by blushing deep orange and blood red,
before fading through chalky mauve to steel grey. The light show over, I fall asleep to the melodic
gurgle of the small mountain stream nearby. </div>
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<h3>
<b><span style="color: #990000;">Retreat to
Klosterdalen</span></b></h3>
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A near full moon is sinking in a clear blue sky behind
Ketil. It’s going to be another scorcher. Today is decision time. We have
sufficient food for several more days in the wilderness, but our insect
repellent is dangerously low. Moreover, the time we have taken to reach the col
means we have fallen behind our estimated schedule. If we decide to pass over
the col we are committed to pushing on towards Qinnguadalen, another valley
which is still some days away, and my knees don’t feel too good. The weather
forecast, obtained daily from Martin’s DeLorme Inreach two way satellite
device, which indicates a föhn wind is highly likely within the next 48 hours,
clinches it. We decide to descend to Klosterdalen rather than be caught out on
the high mountain passes where we would be forced to sit out this strong wind
which blows off the ice cap sometimes for around two days, which would mean
missing our helicopter flight back to Narsarsuaq. We send a message to José to
tell him to collect us at the beach at low tide the day after tomorrow.</div>
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I can’t say I regret our decision, because although the
landscape is magnificent, we are no longer beguiled by its beauty. The sheer
volume of insects coupled with the roughness of the terrain have made life at
times unbearable. Martin, who is not allergic to mosquito bites, has a back peppered
with literally thousands of livid purple marks! I am at a loss to know what the
millions of female insects, who require a blood meal to gestate their eggs, prey
upon, for apart from a handful of snow buntings, lapland longspurs, ravens and a solitary
duck, we have seen no fauna at all. As we begin our descent from the col mid
morning, mercifully in the shade of the mountains, we spot an Arctic hare
sitting upright amid some boulders, it’s white fur providing surprisingly good
camouflage. Suddenly aware of our presence, it hops off before we can commit it
to camera. I guess the hare has not been spared by the midges and mosquitoes
either!</div>
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Just below the snowline where we pass into brilliant hot
sunshine, the midges begin to swarm around our heads and we are forced to don
the dreaded head nets. Descending from the col is no easier than the ascent,
although we have a better idea of the terrain and what obstacles to avoid.
Higher up, we stick to the stream, but as we encounter the boulders and dwarf
trees lower down, we keep to the scrub as much as possible which is mostly shin to thigh
high. In the clearings, I am surprised at how dry the ground is, with large
patches of desiccated lichen that has dried in characteristic hexagonal shapes,
and we later learn that this summer in <st1:place w:st="on">Greenland</st1:place>
has been particularly dry. With plenty of time, we decide to cease our battle
with the trees and rocks and stop at the hottest time of day in the shade of an
enormous boulder where it's pleasantly cool, for a well earned nap. </div>
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It’s mid afternoon when we approach the river which to me sounds
louder. We discover that the snowmelt from the nearby glaciers has swollen it’s
waters which are at least a foot higher in places. The gravel bank is submerged
and the freezing water is now well over my knees soaking my trousers. I’m relieved
when we scramble up the opposite bank. We decide to use the same camping spot
again and, with the tent erected, begin the task of foraging for firewood. Once
lit, I sit by it to dry my trousers. Insects are usually repelled by the
presence of smoke, but the midges and mosquitoes here don’t seem to be deterred
much at all, or maybe it’s just the sheer volume of them? Once the midges
subside as the temperature falls, we eat a freeze dried meal of chicken korma with rice. Our roaring
camp fire eventually burns down to a few glowing embers just as the sun finally
fades from the valley, making it decidedly chilly. We retire to the warmth of
our sleeping bags as the first stars appear in a cloudless night sky.</div>
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<h3 style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b><span style="color: #990000;">Down by the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Riverside</st1:place></st1:city></span></b></h3>
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The penetrating musty odour of the bog wafts in through the
tent flaps along with scores of mosquitoes as Martin hands me a mug of coffee. I
rise to a view of swathes of white mist hovering above the valley which merges with the acres of white bog cotton, so it’s almost impossible to see
where the two meet. It’s an uplifting sight. Mid morning we break camp and
begin the trek down through the valley towards the beach. The thought of having
to bushwhack our way through the horrible trees yet again is playing on my mind.
Avoiding the bog as much as possible, we follow the river downstream, walking
on the flat gravely banks and channels surrounding it where clumps of brilliant
pink flowers grow profusely. Dwarf fireweed (<i>Chamerion latifolium</i>), in Greenlandic <i>niviarsiaq</i>, which means ‘little girl’, is Greenland’s national
flower, and provides valuable nutrition for the Inuit, who eat the leaves raw,
boiled with fat, or steeped in water for tea. The flowers and fruits are
consumed raw as a salad with meals of seal and walrus blubber. </div>
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We soon come to the two lakes, and after walking down the shoreline of the upper one, discover a bridge of land between the two. We immediately see that it’s possible to avoid bushwhacking our way
through the dense trees above the shoreline of the next lake, the route marked on the <st1:city w:st="on">Harvey</st1:city> map, by crossing this bridge to walk down the other side which is vegetation free. It is becoming increasingly obvious to us that the map has not been 'ground-truthed' and is woefully inaccurate. The new way we follow is flat and boggy, with rust red
patches denoting the presence of bog iron, but it’s pretty firm and we make good
speed on this section. If only we knew this on the way up, but the landscape looked as if it was just wetland and thus impassable. The sight of acres of bog cotton quivering and dancing
in the breeze, so dense it looks like snow against the clear blue sky, is stunning.
I’ve never seen such a display. Arctic bog cotton is thicker than the common
cotton grass we see in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region>
and as we move through it, tiny clumps and filaments rise upwards, catching the
sunlight like incandescent candle flame, before being carried away in the
breeze.<br />
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<br />
We follow the course of the turquoise river flowing
languidly through the flat valley bottom past colourful patches of Arctic thyme,
enjoying the ripples etched in its golden sandy banks, until our progress is
abruptly impeded by a water channel leading into it which is too deep and wide to cross.
As we are trying to find a way to surmount this obstacle, Martin receives a
message from José saying that the föhn wind is expected later today and he is
leaving Nanortalik now to collect us. We have just a couple of hours to reach
the beach! Unable to cross the channel, and now running short of time, we
decide the best way forward will be to completely ignore the useless Harvey map and to follow the river down rather than re-enter the Blair Witch Forest! We don’t bother
to don our crocs, and in our boots and gaiters, plunge into the water. It
doesn't feel all that cold and we meander our way round huge boulders, scramble
over rocks and wade through narrow channels where the water comes over our
knees. I am really enjoying this challenge, but it might not be advisable when
the river is in spate in early summer.</div>
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Just under a kilometre later, the terrain begins to drop
slightly, the speed of the water increases, the river channel narrows and we
are forced to climb to higher ground. With hindsight, it might have been better
to have crossed the river to the opposite bank where the vegetation seemed to
be less dense and then recrossed it where it flows across the beach into
the fjord as it was low tide. Instead, we scale a granite outcrop and then descend
and bushwhack our way through a couple of hundred metres of dense dwarf trees in
clouds of midges and mosquitoes, before we finally emerge into the scrub land
behind the beach.</div>
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Arriving above the beach, we see there’s no sign yet of José, but a large yacht is anchored offshore which we ascertain belongs to a
Norwegian climbing group who are probably tackling Ketil. Knowing that we will
soon leave this place, I remove my head net, glad for the cool breeze blowing
up the fjord which banishes the insects and sit quietly for some time just soaking in the atmosphere. A
nearby clump of harebells nod joyously in the breeze and tiny waves lap at the
seaweed laden shore. I feel slightly remorseful that we do not have another
night here as we had expected.</div>
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Before long we hear the tell tale hum of a rib boat. The
tiny figure of José waves and we make our way down to the beach. On the boat,
finally away from the pestilential clouds of insects that have so plagued our
trek, my thoughts drift to a real meal, a hot shower and cold beer, not
necessarily in that order! The journey back up the fjord facing into the wind however
is brutal. Although I’m in an immersion suit, the fact that my feet and legs
are still wet from being in the river means I’m chilled to the bone. The wind
and salt spray burns my face and my misery only increases when we enter a bank
of clammy fog near the top of the fjord. Nanortalik can’t emerge through the
gloom quickly enough!</div>
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A couple of hours later, belly full, showered, clad in clean, dry clothes and clutching a cold beer, I muse over the previous days’ events.
Am I glad we did this trek? Yes. Definitely. For long after the insect bites
subside; long after the bruises, sustained by bushwhacking through the vilest vegetation imaginable and which make my body look like a Dalmatian dog, have faded, the views of endless expanses of shimmering
white bog cotton, ice encrusted lakes, rushing turquoise rivers and spiky snow
streaked mountains turning red in the settling sun, will remain indelibly
etched in my memory.<br />
<br />
Watch the video of our trek at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fFihqt587gsKernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-46857896248809286202015-06-24T18:16:00.000-07:002016-07-30T02:24:10.796-07:00The World's Scariest Hike? El Caminito del Rey, Andalucía, Spain<div class="MsoNormal">
Bliss is an evening in the limestone hills of Andalucía,
when the heat of the day has ebbed and the landscape is bathed in the rich tones of the sinking sun. It’s mid May and I’m at a quiet finca in El Chorro
northwest of Málaga, sitting under a carob tree sipping a bottle of chilled
<i>Giatenejo</i>, a divine, locally brewed craft ale, fortuitously discovered at a nearby restaurant. I let my thoughts drift back
to the fabulous walk we did earlier as I listen to the incessant chit chat of
swifts and sparrows and watch a large group of Griffin vultures slowly circling
on thermals above some nearby cliffs. </div>
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This afternoon, we tackled what has been described as the
scariest walk in the world: El Caminito del Rey: The King’s Pathway. This runs
for around three kilometres some 100 metres above the <st1:placename w:st="on">Guadalhorce</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype> in the Desfiladero del los
Gaitanes Gorge near the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">village</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename w:st="on">El Chorro</st1:placename></st1:place>. Finished in
1906, the Caminito was constructed to service a channel and numerous sluice gates
connected to the Salto de Chorro hydroelectric plant. Its royal association
came when El Chorro Dam was inaugurated by King Alfonso XIII who walked it in 1921. Over the years, the Caminito fell into a state of disrepair,
sections of the concrete walkway had fallen away leaving just the iron girders
hanging in mid air high above the deep, steep sided gorge. This didn’t deter
those looking for adventure, in fact the walkway attracted thrill seekers,
adrenalin junkies and via ferratists, many of whom, ill equipped and
inexperienced, risked life and limb to
cross from one end of the gorge to the other. Inevitably, there were fatalities
and the walkway acquired a reputation as the world’s scariest hike. In 2000,
the local authority closed it to the public and imposed a maximum fine of 6,000
euro on anyone caught tackling it. Not that this acted as much of a deterrent;
people still undertook the route clandestinely and a German climber fell to his
death as recently as 2010.</div>
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However, the regional government of <st1:place w:st="on">Andalusia</st1:place>
and the local government of Málaga, saw the tourism potential of the route and agreed
to share the costs of a €9 million restoration project (including car parking
and a museum). Work on the installation of a new boardwalk, mostly constructed
right above the crumbling old concrete walkway, at a cost of €2.7 million, commenced in March 2014. A year
later, the first tourists traversed the new route. Free tickets for the first
six months have been advertised online as the local authorities seek to test
their new tourist attraction and, although the Caminito is now booked solid
until late September, we are among those lucky enough to obtain a couple of those
free tickets. </div>
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So, after an el cheapo flight with Ryanair from <st1:city w:st="on">Dublin</st1:city> to Málaga, we find
ourselves entering a small office, the El Chorro information point, at the
southern end of the route which is only a short drive from our finca. We have
left our hire car parked by the <i>Garganta</i>
hotel and restaurant where we enjoyed a delicious lunch. From this restaurant, sited just opposite the train
station on the Málaga to Córdoba line, it's a mere ten minute stroll downhill to the information point. Here we
produce our online ticket confirmations for our 1.30 pm slot (the only tickets
we could get) and receive a hard hat and a hair net which must be worn at all
times. Along with over three dozen other people, all Spaniards of various ages bar a
group of middle aged Dutchmen and a small number of other English speaking
people, we are given an introductory and safety talk by one of the rangers in
Spanish, which describes the route that totals approximately 7.7 km, divided
into 4.8 km long access ways and 2.9 km long boardwalks. </div>
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Some of the Dutch and English look bewildered, trying to
understand the Spanish that pours typewriter-like at enormous speed from the
ranger’s mouth. I admit to finding her hard to follow! When the route opens
properly in the future, and, as it will be aimed at day trippers from Málaga and the Costa del Sol,
beloved of sun worshippers and expats from <st1:country-region w:st="on">Britain</st1:country-region>
and <st1:place w:st="on">Ireland</st1:place>,
this pep talk should perhaps be delivered also in English. We managed to get
the gist that a reasonable level of fitness is required and we should allow
around 4.5-5 hours to complete the walk. A maximum of 50 people per half hour
are admitted at either end of the gorge, no children under eight years of age
or pet dogs are allowed on the route, no tripods are permitted and only small
packs may be carried. As this is a linear route, an hourly bus service costing
a few euro, has been laid on at either end to take you back to where you
started.</div>
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<h3>
<span style="color: #990000;">Spain's mini 'Grand Canyon'</span></h3>
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On an unseasonably hot spring day, we set off along a track
past the milky green water of the Tajo
de la Encantada Reservoir<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span>fringed
with candy pink oleander flowers and shaded by pine trees whose resin scents
the air. The dusty path soon becomes more exposed and an enormous arched
railway bridge towers above us. We soon realise that we have chosen to walk the
route the hardest way, because from the southern, El Chorro, entrance, a
gradual incline is encountered all the way to Ardales at the northern end. As
we ascend, the sheer cliffs at the end of the reservoir and the barely visible cleft
marking the entrance to the gorge, reminiscent of the Siq that permits entry
into the ancient Nabataean stronghold of <st1:city w:st="on">Petra</st1:city>,
loom into view and I can only wonder at what might lie hidden upstream. My eye
is suddenly caught by the ant like figures of people moving steadily along a
section of the new pathway clinging to the sheer cliff-face towards the
entrance to the gorge. Just inside its narrow entrance, I spy what appears to
be a bridge arching high above the river. It’s a pretty thrilling sight.</div>
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The path is lined with vivid patches of spring flowers that
thrive in calcareous soil, including blood red poppies and oxeye daises. After
a steepish climb up some steps we arrive at a checkpoint sited on a small
terrace close to a commemorative plaque marking the reopening of the route, where
a cheery ranger examines our tickets and crosses our names off a computer print
out. We now descend down a flight of steps passing above a green metal bridge
carrying the railway line to Córdoba that will accompany us up the gorge. As we
cross over the railway line, the boardwalk is encased in a chain-link cage to
protect the track beneath which feels slightly surreal. If this place looks
somewhat familiar, it should, as the heart-stopping escape scenes at the end of
the 1965 World War Two film, <i>Von Ryan’s
Express</i>, starring Frank Sinatra, were filmed on this stretch of the Caminito
and in the railway tunnel right below.</div>
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We head down a series of narrow, knee jerking steps onto the
flat section of boardwalk clinging to the sheer cliff face that we had admired
from afar earlier. Gripping the metal handrail, I peer over the edge where,
some 100 metres below us, the turquoise water of the reservoir slaps up against
the base of the cliffs. I can feel the heat of the afternoon being radiated off
the limestone walls and beads of sweat stand proud of my brow. It’s suffocatingly
hot as the heat is being trapped by the presence of Saharan dust in the
atmosphere; I would not recommend the slots at midday/early afternoon if you
cannot tolerate the heat of a Spanish summer. Indeed, we tried to obtain
morning tickets when the temperature would have been pleasant, but these had
unsurprisingly already been snapped up.<br />
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Martin is relieved as we climb another set of steps into a
cooling breeze as we begin to round the cliff face towards the narrow entrance
to the gorge. Passing below the atmospheric remnants of rusting electricity
poles with their ceramic insulators that formerly carried power up the gorge to
the various hydroelectric facilities, we now catch our first close up glimpse
of the dilapidated pins and rusty brackets that held the old pathway into place
and the remains of the via ferrata equipment formerly used by climbers to
access the route. The gentle breeze soon becomes something of a gale as the
wind tears down through the gorge that acts as a kind of wind funnel. We pause
to peer over the chain link safety fence at the vertiginous view of the narrow
cleft marking the entrance to the gorge, where the turquoise water, agitated by
the wind, swirls and snarls way below us. Ahead, we can see the old bridge, the
Balconcillo de los Gaitanes, taking the original walkway above the concrete aqueduct
spanning the gorge and a 30 metre long newly installed galvanised steel suspension
bridge now used to cross it.</div>
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Officially named the Puente Ignacio Mena, after a local
councillor, the new bridge holds ten people at a time and sways and oscillates
as I begin to walk onto it. Flashes of the turquoise <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Guadalhorce</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place>
far below appear through the grid decking beneath my feet and, as I approach the
centre of the bridge, it really begins to wobble, causing me to grip the metal handrails
tightly. Anyone who suffers from vertigo mightn’t be too happy crossing this! Just
past the suspension bridge are fine views of the new Caminito built neatly about a metre above the old walkway on the left. But equally impressive is the
railway line constructed between 1860 and 1866, disappearing from one tunnel into another on the right, supported
on a large arched stone viaduct. The
tenacity and ingenuity of Victorian engineers who seemed unwilling to be deterred
or intimidated by even the most extreme topography, such as that encountered by
constructing this railway through this gorge, never ceases to amaze me.</div>
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A more sobering sight is the memorial plaque to three young
climbers who fell to their deaths here in August 2000 when the via ferrata
cable they had been using broke. The cable, hanging loosely from the rock, has
been left in place as a permanent reminder of this tragedy. Indeed, as we
progress along the new pathway, we get views of the old Caminito down through
the wooden slats and also ahead of us, as the route weaves its way around the
rock face, hugging the contours of the gorge. It seems something of a miracle
that there weren’t more deaths, as huge chunks of the concrete have fallen away
from the old path leaving gaping holes in it; in places it has been reduced to
mere iron girders hanging precariously over 100 metres above the river. Some of
these look rotten as pears and many pieces have all but rusted away.<br />
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Mercifully, we have now entered the shade of the gorge and
the relief from the burning sun is welcome. We marvel at the variety
of ferns and clumps of pretty spring flowers growing out of the many crevices
in the limestone. The route now doubles back on itself as it enters a side
gorge carved by the Falla Finca, a tributary of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Guadalhorce</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
Here the old pathway can be clearly seen, including a four metre long concrete
bridge ‘short cut’ across this small gorge that has long lost its safety rail
and toe boards and seems to be suspended in mid air. We both agree that leaving
the old pathway in situ to be quietly reclaimed by the elements only adds to
the incredible atmosphere of the place.</div>
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As we leave Falla Chica, we stop to admire the commanding
view of the Balconcillo de los Gaitanes and the aqueduct from which a cascade
of water is being blown away in the wind, its myriad tiny droplets catching the
sunlight like a shower of diamonds. Soon after we encounter a small,
glass-floored cantilevered viewing platform which is strategically placed to
provide perhaps the best and most memorable views back down the gorge, showcasing
the sheer sided spectacular cliffs and ahead, the verdant Valle del Hoyo we have yet
to traverse. Hemmed in by the high limestone crags of the Sierra de Huma, the serene
turquoise coils of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Guadalhorce</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place> flow through it. In
the far distance we can see the continuation of the Gaitanes Gorge through
which we must pass to reach Ardales. We cannot resist the urge to gingerly step
out onto the glass platform for the obligatory photo book snap, braving the stomach
churning feeling experienced by seeming to hang, frozen in mid air!</div>
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<h3>
<span style="color: #990000;">The 'Lost World'</span></h3>
The boardwalk now ends and we traverse a series of wooden stairs
that delivers us into one of the concrete channels that brought the water down the
Valle del Hoyo from the higher Gaitanejo reservoir. The water ran through a series of such channels and tunnels towards the Balconcillo de
los Gaitanes bridge before descending in a vertical tunnel where it gained sufficient
speed and energy to drive turbines at the bottom that generated the electricity
to power Málaga. Indeed, we pass by one of the cast iron wheels that operated a
sluice gate used to regulate the water flow and peer up one of the dark tunnels
before following an old water channel up the valley. This is shaded by pine trees fringed by clumps of
spiny leaves sporting pale mauve flower spikes of Acanthus and scrubby bushes of
<i>Anthyllis cytisoide</i> bearing lemon
yellow flowers.</div>
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We pass by several other couples coming the other way who
greet us warmly and a large group of Spaniards who set off with us earlier but
who are now availing of a long bench amid some pine trees to enjoy a picnic.
Permitting just 50 people to enter the gorge at each end every half an hour
ensures that the Caminito never feels cluttered, allowing each visitor a
leisurely, pleasant experience.</div>
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The Valle del Hoyo with its towering limestone crags has
something of the ‘lost world’ about it; all that is missing is the
pterodactyls! I sit awhile to savour the smell of this hot land: the odour of parched
earth, the heady fragrance of the pine trees and the sweet, resinous scent emitted by
the mastic trees that grow everywhere. This 'smellscape', an olfactory memory, is permanently hard
wired into the brain of anyone who, like me, has ever lived in the <st1:place w:st="on">Mediterranean</st1:place>
and yearns to return. Paper dry grasses interspersed with poppies nod and whisper in the
breeze and I watch, fascinated, as a number of ants busy themselves collecting fragments
of vegetation for their colony, one heroically struggling with a grass seed over three times its size. Below my rocky vantage point, stands of <st1:city w:st="on">Aleppo</st1:city> pine sweep down to the river which has
formed large, milky turquoise pools and on a hot day such as this, I dream of
plunging into one of these. Away in the hazy distance, a crease in the cliffs marks
the spot where the gorge we have just traversed ends, with part of the Caminito
just visible. I wonder what it would be like to live in this valley, my
imagination fired by the sight of some abandoned orange groves and allotments
surrounding the derelict farmstead, Cortijo la Hoya. </div>
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After some 3 km, a flight of steps leads to another
boardwalk that takes us round a huge rock buttress to the sheer-sided and
narrow continuation of the Gaitenejo Gorge. I am exhilarated by the thought of
re-entering the gorge and we both regret that we had not discovered this place
15 years or so ago, when it was untamed and less well known. The
boardwalk twists and undulates its way through the narrow gorge high above the
river which has carved and fashioned fantastical shapes in the limestone over
eons of rushing through this narrow chasm. We are delighted by the sight of <st1:city w:st="on">Griffon</st1:city> vultures circling
on thermals high above the cliffs, eyeing no doubt, the many collared doves
that inhabit the rocky crevices of the gorge. With their huge wings silhouetted against the blue sky, it's not hard to imagine that this really is a 'lost world' and that these vultures are in fact pterodactyls from the Cretaceous period! The vegetation is lush, comprised
of oleander, tamarisk and European marram grass.</div>
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We soon spot a small bridge, the Puenta del Rey, spanning
the river just before a rock overhang where the canal widened to form a mini
reservoir to control the water flow, and an old overflow drain discharged into
the river. The crumbling stone steps leading down to the river have survived,
but the Casa de Guardia de Canal, built below the overhang where the workers
who controlled the various sluice gates lived, was inexplicably demolished in
2014, its site now marked by a wooden bench surrounded by blood red poppies and
electric mauve thistles.</div>
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Further along, just before the boardwalk climbs steeply,
clinging seemingly precariously to the towering, sheer cliff face, the route splits
into two: the boardwalk follows an old canal and descends into a short tunnel,
the other bypasses this by means of a flight of original concrete steps that descend
towards the river, only to ascend again to join the boardwalk. The final stretch
of the gorge is very narrow and we greatly enjoy passing along the shady boardwalk
staring down at the whirling pools and rushing turquoise water far below fig and tamarisk
trees sprouting from the craggy cliffs.</div>
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<h3 style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #990000;">Tunnel Vision</span></h3>
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As we pass out of the gorge, we spot a series of small
waterfalls and the remains of what looks like the Caminito continuing along the
cliffs across the other side of the river. With one final, wistful look back
towards the exit of the gorge, we pass through the control point and soon spot
the Gaitanejo Dam with its towers at each end. After a few minutes we reach a portable
cabin which serves as the Ardales Information point where we return our safety
helmets. The dusty pathway now undulates through a pine forest above the Gaitanejo
Dam before entering a large tunnel where the gusting wind lifts huge columns of dust from
the road which follow us through to the other side. </div>
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After walking for several minutes in the sapping heat of late afternoon, we find the route confusing as there is a choice of two
pathways: one signposting another smaller tunnel and the other marking a route
that climbs steeply though the pine forest. Neither clearly signs the way to
Ardales where we must catch a bus back to El Chorro. We decide to take the tunnel. With eyes used to bright sunshine, it's pitch black and its floor frightfully uneven; we fumble and stagger our way through a couple of hundred metres of darkness and I'm relieved to see the pinpoint of light growing ever larger at its end. A head torch would have been useful! But the tunnel turns out to be a good choice as it brings us to a main road leading
downhill to the bus stop opposite a restaurant named <i>El Kiosko </i>near the village of Ardales. However, that we have eventually arrived at the bus stop is more luck than judgement, for there is no signpost at the tunnel exit either to direct walkers to the village and there
certainly need to be improvements made to the signage to avoid people getting lost
after leaving the gorge. The bus, which leaves every hour and costing
two euro each is almost ready to depart, so we eschew a cold beer at <i>El Kiosko</i>, preferring to wait until we
can savour a bottle of the aptly named <i>Giatenejo</i>
craft beer once we return to our finca.</div>
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Billed as one of the top new travel experiences by <i>Lonely Planet</i> for 2015 will do much to
ensure the popularity of El Caminito del Rey, but rock climbers and via
ferratists continue to lament the loss of one of their most risqué adventure
playgrounds. Some locals we spoke to are appalled at its new ‘Disneyesque’
features and recoil at the thought of busloads of tourists from cruise ships docked
at Málaga pouring through there every hour. They doubt that there will be much
of a positive knock on effect for their businesses from such day trippers. Although it would have been great to have discovered this place long before it became a tourist honey pot, overall,
we formed a favourable impression of the Caminito and marvelled at the
engineering excellence of yesteryear that has been respected by the installation
of the new boardwalk that blends almost seamlessly with the old pathway. Although it is no longer the world's scariest hike, the Caminito isn't a walk in the park by any means, especially in the unforgiving Spanish
sun. We agree that those looking for a novel hike offering magnificent scenery and a bit of excitement in
this part of southern <st1:country-region w:st="on">Spain</st1:country-region>
will doubtless find this 8 km route just the ticket. That is, if they are able
to get hold of one!</div>
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Watch the video of our trek along the Caminito de Rey at:</div>
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HQgIA-lDuhI</div>
Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-63745389991054201722015-06-09T14:20:00.001-07:002015-06-11T10:22:17.072-07:00Mulhacén: King of Mountains, Sierra Nevada, Spain<div class="MsoNormal">
The Sierra Nevada soar into an impossibly blue sky above the
ancient city of <st1:place w:st="on">Granada</st1:place>.
They are living up to their name all right: snow capped, they gleam in the hot
spring sunshine. It’s mid May and I’m in Andalucía, the former Moorish <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">kingdom</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Al-Andalus in southern Spain</st1:placename></st1:place>. Everything here appeals to
my senses: the melodic language; the warmth of the Spanish sun; the sun-kissed
coastline bathed by the warm waters of the Mediterranean; the high, narrow
streets of ancient cities, their whitewashed buildings clustered around
crumbling fortresses on hilltops that rise above rolling plains; the Arabesque
architecture with its intricate zellij tile work and dripping alabaster that
reaches its apogee in the magnificent Alhambra Palace of Granada; the incredible
gastronomy with more than a nod to the region’s Moorish past; the divine wines
and craft beers; the passion of flamenco guitar and above all, the palpable
sense of history that emanates from the very ground. <st1:city w:st="on">Granada</st1:city>
is the resting place of two of Europe’s most remarkable rulers: the Catholic
monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabella, who, in the dying years of the fifteenth
century, united the kingdoms of <st1:country-region w:st="on">Castile</st1:country-region>
and <st1:country-region w:st="on">Aragon</st1:country-region> and reclaimed <st1:city w:st="on">Granada</st1:city>, the last bastion
of the Moors, for Christendom. This seismic event created a fertile seed bed
from which grew an assertive, expansive new Spain that set its sights across
the Atlantic, paving the way for the Conquest of the <st1:place w:st="on">Indies</st1:place>
and the birth of a global empire which has left its mark on countless countries
and peoples across the world today. I simply love <st1:place w:st="on">Spain</st1:place>, and the southern part of it
in particular.<br />
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This brings me back to the Sierra Nevada, the mighty
mountain range that straddles the provinces of <st1:city w:st="on">Granada</st1:city> and Almería, formed 66 to 1.8 million
years ago during the collision of the African and Eurasian continental plates. I
have long harboured a desire to climb the highest mountain in my favourite
European country, which is what has brought Martin and myself here. We have our
sights set on Mulhacén (3,482m), the highest peak in Europe outside the
Caucasus Mountains and the <st1:place w:st="on">Alps</st1:place>. Its also the third
most topographically prominent peak in Western Europe (after Mont Blanc and <st1:place w:st="on">Mount Etna</st1:place>) and ranked 64th in the world by prominence.
Being in Andalucía, it is no surprise to discover that Mulhacén has a Moorish
connection: it is named after Abu I-Hasan Ali, or Muley Hacén, as he is known
in Spanish, the penultimate Muslim King of <st1:place w:st="on">Granada</st1:place> who died in 1485 and, according to
legend, was buried on the summit of the mountain that came to bear his name.</div>
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Although it’s only around 9.00 am, the sun is surprisingly
hot on our shoulders as we leave the Albergue Universitario at Peñones de <st1:city w:st="on">San Francisco</st1:city>, a mountain lodge run by the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">University</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Granada</st1:placename></st1:place>. We are the only people staying
here, but just a fortnight earlier the place would have been bursting at the
seams with skiers and snowboarders eager to enjoy the last of the winter snow.
Now, the large car park at Hoya de la Mora and the vast ski village sprawling
across the mountain slope below surrounded by retreating patches of dirty snow and
motionless ski lifts, are eerily deserted, as desolate and bleak as a northern
England seaside resort in mid-winter. </div>
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We climb steadily uphill passing by the triangular masonry
shrine to the Virgin de las Nieves under a powder blue sky streaked by wispy
white cloud. Here and there we spot bright patches of spring flowers, welcome
dots of colour amid the stony, arid landscape. We follow a thin trail, worn
bare by the passage of countless feet, that undulates its way ever upwards,
occasionally crossing an asphalt road, the highest in <st1:place w:st="on">Europe</st1:place>,
that switch backs its way towards Posiciones del Veleta (3,100m). Taking this
trail rather than following the road cuts off some 5-6 km. In the summer months,
the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Sierra Nevada</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">National Park</st1:placetype></st1:place> authority
runs a mini bus service to Posiciones del Veleta from where people make the
short climb to Veleta and the more adventurous set out for its twin peak, Mulhacén.</div>
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Less than an hour into our climb, a silver haired man in shorts with heavy pack coming down
the trail hails us loudly. I instantly recognise the accent as being from the
South East of England. He relates how he and his group climbed the mountain
yesterday and have just spent the night at the Refugio de la Carihüela. “It’s a
bloody long way”, he says, brow furrowed, shaking his head, when we inform him we're planning to summit and return the same day. Doubts began to
crowd my mind as ‘Jeremiah’ describes in great detail how much snow was
encountered, the debilitating effects of the altitude and the time it took his
party to summit. Moreover, this was their second attempt – last February they
had failed in their task due to the alpine conditions. I felt somewhat deflated
as we walked away and wondered whether it was wise to try and climb Mulhacén in
one day. Perhaps we should have stayed overnight in one of the refugios too…</div>
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The trail weaves its way along the top of the Barranco de <st1:city w:st="on">San Juan</st1:city>, at times
hanging perilously close to the edge of this rugged ravine where one slip could
result in a fatal fall. As we ascend, we pass the rest of Jeremiah the
Englishman’s group slowly making their way downwards leaning heavily on their
walking poles and grumbling loudly about the distance and the steepness of the
terrain. Mountain gazelles these are not! We soon spot the Sierra Nevada
Observatory and the white dish of the IRAM radiotelescope and around 3,000m
encounter the first snow, which lies feet deep on the road, slowing our
progress. Below us is the partially frozen Laguna de las Yeguas. As we approach
the Refugio de la Carihüela, we disturb a herd of ibex that are perfectly
camouflaged against the rocky terrain; they melt away as soon they spot us. The
refugio is just as well camouflaged, a low semicircular structure constructed
of the surrounding rock that blends perfectly with the landscape. Outside are
two other trekkers, a couple of Swedish brothers, who are also aiming for the
summit in a day. At least we are not the only fools to be attempting this! We
have reached the refugio in around two and a half hours from the Albergue. But it took
Jeremiah nearly that much time to cover the distance from the refugio to the point where he
met us on the trail. Read into that what you will!<br />
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<br />
We sit on the stone benches in front of the refugio soaking
up the view towards distant Mulhacén and the even more distant <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">peak</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">La Alcazaba</st1:placename></st1:place>. My eye follows a thin white
line where snow lies on a gravel track, the old <st1:place w:st="on">Sierra
Nevada</st1:place> road, once drivable but closed to traffic in 1999, that
leads towards Puerta, a gap below the Crestones de la Río Seco which do indeed
resemble the comb of a cockerel, angled sharply upwards into the hazy sky.
Beyond, the old road weaves its way round Loma Pelada behind which Mulhacén
towers. It does indeed look a bloody long way off! The atmosphere is full of
Saharan dust, giving the landscape, which appears sharply etched, an odd, glassy hue. The dust has also trapped the heat, making the day
abnormally hot for the time of year and we are extremely warm in just short
sleeved woollen base layers. Despite the heat, large snow patches dot the bare
brown mountain slopes and we can see that the route crosses several of the steepest
of these. Fortunately we had the sense to pack a set of half crampons. Suitably
rested and refreshed, we set off following the tracks made by the Swedes who are
several minutes ahead of us.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The snow is soft and sugary and I’m instantly glad of my
crampons as I traverse the steep snow covered slope leading away from the
refugio. Below this we follow the old road as it makes a couple of hairpin
bends below a large outcropping shelf of rock where water is cascading down
from the melting snow above in a series of mini waterfalls. Below the old road we
spot the small Laguna de los Vesares swollen by the snowmelt. There now follows
a long plod across snow and scree slopes towards Puerta, a nick in the rocks
between the crags of the Crestones de Río Seco and the equally rugged Raspones
de Río Seco. Through a gap in the Crestones, we shudder at the vertiginous
drop into the blue-green Valdeinfiernos valley.<br />
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Passing through the narrow, snow choked cleft of rock aptly
named ‘Puerta’, another vista more barren than ever unfolds before us, with the
old road clearly visible as it sweeps round the bare and lifeless Loma Pelada. The cluster of small tarns named Lagunas de Río Seco that should be visible below the old road are completely buried beneath snow, their presence only betrayed by the slightest depressions and hint of aqua. With the exception of the snow, the landscape reminds me of a scene from Mars, made all the more Martian by the
strange light caused by the dust in the atmosphere which affects the Rayleigh
scattering, so that the sky does not appear to be very blue.</div>
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We stop to remove our crampons as the worst of the snow is
now behind us. We decide to follow the old road rather than take a path shown
on our map that traverses the ridge above the Luguna de la Caldera, as we are
not sure how steep and snow covered the terrain is above the lake. Although
this adds a couple of extra kilometres to the route, we feel it is better to be
safe than sorry and make good speed round the snow-dappled basin, Cuenca de Río
Seco, below Loma Pelada. Where the road turns sharply downhill towards Laguna
de la Caldera, we pass a small rectangular building perched on a shelf of rock
with fabulous views down the Seco valley which we later discover was the
Refugio Pillavientos. We finally spot the Refugio de la Caldera, which, like
the Refugio de la Carihüela, is built of local stone and is therefore almost
invisible against the barren landscape. <br />
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As we approach the refugio, we pass several small patches of
white rock rose (<i>Helianthemum apenninum</i>), the first flowers we have seen since
we hit the trail above Hoya de la Mora. Between the refugio and a small lake
are a herd of Spanish ibex, several sporting impressive sets of curled horns,
that seem totally unperturbed by our presence. We arrive to find the Swedes
eating their lunch. The refugio inside is identical to Carihüela: two wooden
sleeping platforms one above the other running the width of the building, and a
long wooden table with benches either side complete the furnishings. A series
of hooks run along one wall for hanging up clothes, there are some candles on the
table and, for a well-used remote refugio, it’s fairly clean and comfortable.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Martin fires up our gas stove for lunch and I potter off
down to a small lake fed by snow melt. In the summer this will disappear, but today
the surrounding patches of snow are reflected in its shallow green water, above
which Mulhacén rises majestically. We have a steep climb of over 400 metres
ahead of us so we fill ourselves up with a highly calorific meal of freeze
dried food.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Until now the route has been fairly benign, mostly
consisting of a gentle upward ascent. All that changes as we begin the slog up Mulhacén.
The sun is beating down relentlessly as we pass by the Laguna de la Caldereta
and commence the ascent of the dusty trail up the western flank of the
mountain. The heat, trapped by the dust in the atmosphere is suffocating and I
can feel it being reflected off the rocks and bare soil as I struggle upwards. I
worry for Martin who does not like the heat at all. He’ll suffer making this
climb at altitude and he has already slowed considerably. Although we did expect there to
be snow on the higher ground, neither of us predicted such unseasonably warm
weather and for it to be in the mid-twenties over 3,000m high! <br />
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We push on ever upwards crossing a couple of patches of
dirty snow clinging stubbornly to the trail. Here and there, tufts of wiry
yellow grass break the monotony of the stony landscape and I am delighted to
spot some clumps of <i>Viola crassiuscula</i>, the <st1:place w:st="on">Sierra Nevada</st1:place> violet, endemic to this mountain chain, flowering amid gaps and crevices in the bare rock. The pretty mauve and white flowers
dance in the breeze on their delicate stalks and seem curiously out of place in
this bleak and arid landscape. I stop by these to wait for Martin slogging his
way upwards. The Refugio de la Caldera is but a minute dot barely visible
above the two, now tiny, metallic green lakes we had passed by earlier. The
larger of the three, Laguna Caldera, was not visible at the level of the refugio
and is still hidden under ice and snow, nestled in the bottom of the scalloped
basin below the shattered rocky ridge of Puntal de la Caldera. Beyond, Veleta
shimmers grey blue in the heat haze. Another party of climbers now appears about
a hundred metres below us amid the shattered rocks on the steep side of the
Loma del Mulhacén. Their progress is also painfully slow in the fierce heat and altitude.<br />
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I mop the sweat from my brow and suck the last vestiges of
water from my bladder and we begin the final push for the summit, passing the
Swedes who have begun their descent. With their words of encouragement echoing
in my ears, we cross a deep patch of sugary snow and are at last atop the broad
rocky ridge leading to the summit cairn. This finally comes into view, a small
outcrop standing a couple of metres higher than the surrounding rock, sporting
a concrete pillar and what looks to be a gated shine carved out of the rock
which is covered in scarves and items of clothing that have been tied on to the
metal grille, including a rather garish bright orange tee shirt. It’s almost impossible
to see what’s inside the shrine due to the clutter, but I think I spy the
Virgin Mary amid the candles, bottles, plastic flowers and wooden crosses,
devotional offerings left by umpteen climbers.</div>
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After the obligatory summit photo, we take some time to admire
the view, clambering the final couple of metres onto a concrete platform
sporting the concrete pillar. When the weather conditions are right, the views
over the Sierra Nevada are extensive, and it’s possible to see more distant ranges
including the Sierra de las Nieves north of <st1:city w:st="on">Marbella</st1:city>,
the Sierras de las Cazorla to the east of Jaén and even the <st1:placename w:st="on">Rif</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountains</st1:placetype>
in northern <st1:country-region w:st="on">Morocco</st1:country-region>.
But today we cannot see much beyond the immediate mountains, let alone <st1:country-region w:st="on">Morocco</st1:country-region>, as <st1:place w:st="on">Africa</st1:place>
has instead come to us in the form of Saharan dust! But standing on the highest
point in peninsular Spain is a great experience, even on this dusty, heat hazed
day, and my stomach churns as I eye the near perpendicular 500 metre plus drop to
the snowy Hoya del Mulhacén with its ice encrusted lakes, and admire the broad
sweep of the sharp ridge above the diminutive Refugio de la Caldera standing
proud, pimple like, from the ruddy, parched face of the landscape. The rocky
ramparts of nearby Al Alcazaba rise majestically, a rectangular, unroofed stone
walled building, apparently once a chapel, stands sentinel near the summit, while
in a valley far below, tinged the faintest of green, is a long thin lake, the
final of seven in the Cañada de las Siete Lagunas.<br />
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It’s a very long way back to the Albergue where we have left
our car, and mindful of the time this will take, we pull ourselves away reluctantly
from the roof of <st1:country-region w:st="on">Spain</st1:country-region>,
stopping briefly to take photos for the climbing party we saw earlier, a
group of young Spaniards who have just arrived at the shrine. We progress
speedily down towards the Refugio de la Caldera, taking care not to slip on the
trail pounded to bare earth by the passage of countless feet. Before long we
are back on the old road sweeping between the two metallic green lakes we saw
from the summit and we’re soon approaching the bend above the Refugio
Pillavientos. Upon rounding the corner, I feel slightly deflated looking at the
distance we have to cover to pass through Puerta let alone that to the Refugio
de la Carihüela, a tiny protuberance in the pass between Veleta and the Tajos del Tesoro. I can see the
Swedes crossing over the first patch of snow ahead of us, but poor Martin is
still struggling with the heat so we move more slowly than we otherwise could
do. Coming to the snow, we stop to don our crampons. Hair stiff with sweat and
dust, I’m now totally out of water and looking forward to a good drink at the waterfalls
we passed earlier. The sun is sinking lower in the eastern sky, it isn’t quite
as hot now and I can see ahead that some of the route lies in shade which will
make the going easier for Martin.</div>
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After what seems like an eternity, we come to the small
waterfalls beneath the almost sheer southeast side of Veleta where Martin,
suffering from mild heat fatigue, cools down in the crystalline cascade. The water
is freezing but tastes divine to a sun parched, dusty mouth and throat! Now out
of the sun and refreshed by the water, we move rapidly up the snow slope to the
refugio. Here we remove our crampons before setting off towards the tarmac road
down to the Albergue. Rounding the corner from the refugio, an incredible vista
unfolds of the Tajos de la Virgin snaking away to the south-west, but we are instantly
blasted by a very chilly wind and stop to put on our Rab generator smocks for
the first time. As we descend along the trail, the white dish of the IRAM radiotelescope is silhouetted
against a sky turned orange and apricot in the setting sun, hanging in the dust
laden atmosphere like a Chinese lantern. Underneath this magnificent sky, an endless
sea of brown peaks streaked with snow retreat into the distance, fading to
smoky grey and sepia before being swallowed in the haze.<br />
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Night falls as we are about a kilometre from the Albergue
and far below on the darkening plain, I spot the shimmering pin points of thousands
of lights betraying the location of <st1:city w:st="on">Granada</st1:city>
some 25 km away to the northwest. We arrive back at our car in one hour 50 minutes from the refugio, after completing the summit attempt in about 13 hours, covering over 30 kilometres with some 1,500 metres of ascent, despite Jeremiah the Englishman's doubts that this could be done! Two hours later we are sitting, showered and refreshed, in a plush hotel
suite in <st1:city w:st="on">Granada</st1:city>
sipping a delicious cool Mammoth Granada Imperial Stout and wolfing down a selection of tasty tapas. I walk out
onto the balcony, the ceramic tiles beneath my bare feet still warm from the sun, and stare towards
the <st1:place w:st="on">Sierra Nevada</st1:place>, snows silvered by the light
from a hazy crescent moon and a scattering of stars that float above their jagged peaks. The night is still, serene, the scene mystical, magical, like something from the pages of the Arabian Nights. Indeed, it almost seems that the crescent moon, symbol of
Islam, is pointing towards Mulhacén, the final resting place of the penultimate
Moorish King of Al-Andalus, a mountain truly fit for a king, whose summit we have just conquered.<br />
<br />
Watch the video of our climb at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wui0tQR5Hjk</div>
Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-17905802628249706112015-04-16T10:29:00.002-07:002015-04-25T05:10:58.935-07:00Trekking and Wild Camping in the Brandon Massif, Dingle Peninsula, County Kerry<div class="MsoNormal">
<h3>
<b><span style="color: #990000;">Cloghane to Masatiompan</span></b></h3>
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Mist floats above the retreating waters of the creek through
which the <st1:placename w:st="on">Owenmore</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype> empties into <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Brandon</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Bay</st1:placename></st1:place>,
laying bare huge swathes of gleaming wet bladder wrack seaweed. From somewhere
out on the mud flats beneath the rolling mist, the haunting, plaintive call of curlews
drift ashore. The mid-morning air is crisp and pungent with the briny smell of
the ocean and a glassy luminescence cast by the sun almost breaking through the
white blanket of mist lends something of an ethereal atmosphere to the
chocolate box pretty village of Cloghane, a thin thread of colourful houses
built along the shoreline at the southern end of the creek. </div>
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We have just stayed overnight at the excellent Mount Brandon
Hostel, run by a gregarious and wonderfully welcoming lady named Mary, and,
after regaling ourselves with a wholesome Irish breakfast, we set off along the
road weaving its way above the creek towards Cappagh to begin a three day trek
of the Brandon massif. Our objective is to road test items of our camping
kit in preparation for some wilderness trekking we are planning overseas later
this year. Consequently, we are each burdened with very heavy rucksacks, and,
on this Easter weekend, somewhat fittingly this is a cross I simply have to
bear!</div>
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The promise of a fine day has brought out numerous people of
this small community who greet us cordially with waves and cheery smiles as we
pass along the road, stopping every so often to admire the fine vistas of the
creek flashing in and out of the moving mist and tantalising glimpses of the golden
sandy arc of Fermoyle Strand and the rising ground to the east. Signs of spring
are everywhere. Crows are nesting noisily in the bare upper branches of the
trees eyed by nervous wood pigeons and song birds flit from branch to branch,
their elaborate vocalisations filling the air. The hedgerows are speckled with
brilliant dots of colour, betraying the presence of celandines, wood cranesbill,
wild strawberry, primroses and violets that are shaded by the boughs of trees
sporting the pale green buds of new leaves, plump pussy willows and misty white
blackthorn blossom.</div>
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We turn inland towards An Teer, crossing an old stone bridge
over the rushing waters of the Owennafeana River to confront a rolling
patchwork quilt of small brown and green fields dotted with farmsteads sweeping
up to the very feet of the mountains beyond. Vapour, lifted from the sea and
borne inland on the slightest of breezes, is settling on the tops of the
mountains, obscuring their peaks. The heady, sweet perfume of gorse, blazing
golden yellow, hangs in the stillness of the morning air, and, behind the
crumbling stone walled hedges in tiny paddocks grazed by sheep, I spy the pale
green spear tips of yellow flag irises thrusting through the ground to proclaim
the imminent arrival of high spring. This flora accompanies us until we join a
stony boreen, part of the Masatiopman Walking Trail and the <st1:street w:st="on">Dingle
Way</st1:street>, which gradually elevates us onto bogland
heath.<br />
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Here we are instantly serenaded by skylarks, whose warbling
song seems to me to announce the end of the long, interminable dark days of
winter and the final arrival of spring to these shores. We eventually spot the
diminutive body of one of these little birds, hovering some 50 metres above our
heads. Quite suddenly it ceases its melody and plummets like a stone to the
ground where it instantly finds camouflage amid the tangle of heather and bog
grass. We soon leave the old boreen to strike uphill towards Faill an tSáis and
I feel every single gram of my weighty rucksack as we climb the rough and
occasionally boggy hillside. Warmed by the sun which is struggling to break
through the cloud, the air is close and mizzle occasionally dampens my face. I
am glad when we finally reach the rocky summit where a cooling breeze provides
some relief.</div>
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Here, we are treated to majestic scenes of the cloud sailing
over the jagged peaks of the Faha Ridge opposite, a long arm of rock that
thrusts its way upwards towards <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mount</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Brandon</st1:placename></st1:place> before being
swallowed in the churning gloom rumbling about its peak. Far below us, a
solitary figure is moving about in the bog: a turf cutter going methodically
about his work. Seawards, huge columns of white cloud are being lifted up over
the cliffs of the gaping chasm that is Sauce Creek, beyond which lies the
endless aquamarine expanse of the <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic Ocean</st1:place>,
totally free of cloud. A family of four threads its way along the top of these
cliffs and passes below us making for the <st1:street w:st="on">Dingle Way</st1:street> back towards Cloghane. We too
descend towards a series of way markers but head for Masatiompan which looms
ahead of us, summit enveloped in cloud, startling a red grouse which flies off
protesting noisily.</div>
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We are soon back on the old boreen where large pools of shallow
water left over from the recent rains are teeming with wriggling tadpoles. We
stop to explore the crumbling remains of a long abandoned settlement at the top
of a valley that plunges downwards towards the ocean at Brandon Head and which
has a small stream of amber water flowing through it. One of the old buildings
has been re-roofed and is probably used for sheep shearing. Having both door and
windows, and with a fairly clean flagstone floor, it would offer a welcome
respite from the elements for weary walkers should the need arise.</div>
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The <st1:street w:st="on">Dingle Way</st1:street>
now leaves the boreen and climbs steeply up the south-eastern slope of
Masatiompan to the saddle between it and Piaras Mór. Shielded by the mountain,
there is scarcely a breath of air and the first midges of the season make an
unwelcome appearance. In the stillness of the air I can hear the cries of
sheep, the melodic running of a mountain stream and what appears to be snatches
of human voices, but I can see no one. Then, almost on the line of where
sunlight meets shadow, I spy a red tent pitched amid the chaos of huge boulders
flung down from on high by the action of an ancient glacier. It is a divine,
secret camping spot indeed, sheltered in a flat grassy space between two car
sized boulders close to the mountain stream and looking out over the boggy
basin of the Owennafeana River to Brandon Bay. Two females who are trekking the
<st1:street w:st="on">Dingle Way</st1:street>
wave and greet us warmly in east coast American accents as we pass by.</div>
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Our calves get a real workout on the final steep and very
muddy section of the route but we are amply rewarded for our efforts as we pass
from the shadows into the warm, soft sunlight of early evening, arriving on the
broad boggy saddle between Masatiompan and Piaras Mór, where we spot an Ogham
stone casting a long shadow. Discovered in the 1840s buried in peat almost to
its top, the stone was re-erected some 10-12 metres from its discovery site in
the 1980s. The old red sandstone is honey coloured now the fierceness of the
sun has waned, and we can see distinctive parallel gashes down its sides and a
Maltese cross incised on the side facing the sun. The Ogham script apparently
states that the stone was erected to the priest Rónán, son of Comgán. I can
only wonder at the man Rónán might have been, to have had his name inscribed
thus for all eternity and how many feet have passed by his early medieval memorial
over the centuries, struggling against the elements on this wild and windswept
mountain pass. </div>
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Dumping our heavy packs, we begin the ascent up the steep southern
slope of Masatiompan. Our shadows are long as we pass over benign ground comprised
of spongy moss, low grasses and wiry heather. There is a distinct chill in the
evening air. Below us, the cloud has begun to sink and is spread out towards <st1:placename w:st="on">Brandon</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Bay</st1:placename>
like a lustrous pearly blanket, leaving Beenoskee and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Stradbally</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place>
lifting their purple heads above the smother. Way off in the distance, I can
see the Reeks etched against the pale blue sky, their peaks blue like the bloom
on plums. The summit of Masatiompan is marked by a small cairn of stones amid which rises a diminutive monolith. The sense of being surrounded by the <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic</st1:place> is palpable from here and we stare seaward over
the rippling ocean watching great columns of churning white vapour rising
skywards. The <st1:city w:st="on">Brandon</st1:city>
ridge to the south looks immeasurably inviting and from this angle, its jagged
its eastern rim, sides hollowed and plucked away by the action of glaciers eons
ago, resembles a topped egg.</div>
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Reluctantly we pull ourselves away and make our descent to
the saddle. Reunited with our packs, we begin the search for a camping spot,
not as easy as one might think, for to find ground flat enough to pitch our
tent and close enough to a source of water is a challenge. We eventually alight
upon a suitable spot below some boulders which is sheltered by the rocky ridge
that rises up the western slope of Masatiompan and offers grandstand south westerly
views towards Feohanagh, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Smerwick</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Harbour, the Three Sisters and an ellipsis of islands petering away into the Atlantic</st1:placetype></st1:place>. The ridge,
silhouetted against the setting sun, assumes fantastical shapes to my eye: at
the seaward end, a vertical section resembles a giant mouse standing erect on
its hind paws above which reclines an Incan face in full ceremonial headdress. Not
far from our camp is a small bog pool of semi-brackish water which will serve
our needs when filtered and UV treated.</div>
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After pitching our tent, we greedily consume our dinner as
we watch the throbbing disc of golden light slowly sink below the horizon over
the <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic</st1:place>. Threads of cream contrails
linger in the apricot sky, and a thin band of horizontal cloud turns first
orange, then red, finally smoky grey, until all that is left of the sunset is a
chalky mauve which in turn melts away as stygian darkness envelopes the heavens.
We are then treated to the spectacle of the full moon rising above the saddle
to the east, flooding the landscape with a pearly luminescence. It’s bright
enough to see without head torches and we spend what seems like an eternity
soaking up the sight of the ragged coast far below, shimmering and silvered in
the moonlight. Orion appears high over the horizon and pinpoints of light visible
through mist laid over the landscape like a gauzy shroud betray the location of
farmsteads and houses towards Feohanagh. Chilled to the marrow and tired from
the day’s exertions, I finally crawl into my sleeping bag. When I turn off my
head torch, it’s as if our tent is pitched beneath a street light, so strong is
the light of the full moon.</div>
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<h3>
<b><span style="color: #990000;">Masatiompan to
Gearhane</span></b></h3>
</div>
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I am awoken pre-dawn by the raucous cries of ravens and the
plaintive notes of curlews. Martin has already risen to capture the dawn on
camera and I open the tent flaps to let in the heavy scent of the dewy bog. Soft
white cloud lifted off the ocean drifts above the cliffs below, the sea so far away it is impossible to hear the waves crashing onto the rocks. The head of the giant
mouse is blushing ruby red as it catches the first rays of the sun as Martin
returns with water. Our kettle burbles into life for an invigorating cup of coffee and pot
of porridge as we leisurely welcome a new day. I look at our tiny tent pitched
high above the grandeur of the ragged Kerry coastline on this most beautiful of
spring mornings. There is no stronger sense of freedom than to be high on a
mountainside, alone, to commune, unfettered, with the raw beauty of nature. It balances the mind and salves the soul.</div>
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We break camp and head uphill towards Piaras Mór, over
another small rocky hill with the crumbling remains of a building on its
northern slope that was once a lookout tower. Piaras Mór, a conical jumble of stone
on the broad brown ridge sweeping upwards towards Brandon Mountain, looks
strangely out of place and would be more at home on the African velt, it so
resembles a kopje. Dumping our packs we scramble up its steep rocky slope. The
cloud is being rapidly burnt off by the hot morning sunshine and the summits
above us are clear. A fine day’s climbing lies ahead and we are lucky indeed to
have such exceptionally good conditions in these mountains, renowned for their
fickle weather.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEKvgHHONErlTMdBSOlph3H7AInwnifQIsOzE6J-EL_vFzH9QhTuvBki_0j8K6SQ0LUSLsNtK5Z4wQNA7VZDBsiLjZLEJ7CBspV14qKmPs2EirUsF4w4rTuQOoqS2n86NwKEShWflo8FNA/s1600/Brandon+Massif+(21%2Bof%2B47).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEKvgHHONErlTMdBSOlph3H7AInwnifQIsOzE6J-EL_vFzH9QhTuvBki_0j8K6SQ0LUSLsNtK5Z4wQNA7VZDBsiLjZLEJ7CBspV14qKmPs2EirUsF4w4rTuQOoqS2n86NwKEShWflo8FNA/s1600/Brandon+Massif+(21%2Bof%2B47).jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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As we progress up the ridge, expansive views open out over
the sea towards <st1:placename w:st="on">Smerwick</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Harbour, the Three Sisters</st1:placetype> and the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Blasket</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Islands</st1:placetype></st1:place>;
far below us, we can see the tiny dots of people moving along the <st1:street w:st="on">Dingle Way</st1:street>. As we
arrive on the summit of Brandon Far North Top, we have our first view of An
Loch Dubh, tucked away below us half hidden in its shadowy corrie. The huge arc
of golden sand on Fermoyle Beach bathed by
aquamarine waters is revealed in all its majesty and we look back over
yesterday’s route to see the rocky ridge of Faill an tSáis and the fabulous U
shaped chasm that is Sauce Creek, where the sea has bitten deep into the land.
Corrupted from the Irish ‘sás’ which means a trap, it is aptly named.</div>
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Formed over 200 million years ago, it’s hard to believe that
the layers of red sandstone beneath our feet were laid down in a shallow sea at
the edge of an arid desert subject to periodic flash flooding, when this part
of Ireland lay close to the Equator. Over time, a mighty mountain chain was
raised from the ancient seabed and, as the landmass that became <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region> drifted
further north, these mountains were sculpted by the action of wind, rain and
latterly ice. Eons of erosion have lent their western slopes a gentle rounded
shape, softened by the deposition of blanket bog, but the eastern faces fall
abruptly into immense corries while the northern sides sport steep, craggy cliffs.
With the Atlantic Ocean visible from the Brandon Massif to the north, south and west, it is a
phenomenal landscape offering walkers some of the finest scenery in the whole
of <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region>.</div>
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From Brandon North Top the Faha Ridge, rippling and
bristling with layers of jagged rock, comes clearly into view. I can see the
diminutive figures of people standing proud of the ridge like the bristles on a
sow’s back. Offering sustained and challenging scrambling, some along very exposed
sections, we tackled this ridge way back in September 2009. Its shadowy
northern face with exposed bands of purple grey rock interspersed with grassy
ledges, drops steeply into the <st1:placename w:st="on">Owennafeana</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype>, its upper section rising
towards the summit of <st1:city w:st="on">Brandon</st1:city>
by what seems like a razor thin flake of rock. Unbelievably, close to the
ridge’s <st1:city w:st="on">high point</st1:city>,
Benagh, the twin ramparts of an Iron Age hill fort are built on the small plateau
of a jutting promontory atop sheer cliffs over 800 metres above sea level. </div>
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The southern face of Faha is bathed in sunlight, and the
grass, not yet green, is a golden brown. The great bands of rock, contorted and
bent like plasticine, blush pinky-grey. We feast our eyes on a series of
twinkling lakes, each one a deep cobalt blue with hues of metallic green,
strung out like rosary beads between the chaos of huge boulders and shelves of
jagged, naked rock. These magnificent paternoster lakes are connected by a
mountain stream that flows through each one, eventually emptying into the
largest lake, Loch Cruite, from whence it flows into the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Owenmore</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place>
in the valley far below. I spy people threading their way through this vast
glacial obstacle course on a pathway past Loch Chom an Chnoic that rises
steeply to the <st1:city w:st="on">Brandon</st1:city> ridge. The wind is quite chilly and gusty, sending white fluffy clouds
scurrying across the sky as we begin the steep pull uphill to the bare and
exposed summit area, crowned with a huge wooden cross. It’s Easter Sunday and
the exceptionally fine weather has undoubtedly encouraged numerous people, who
are sitting in the lee of the mountain eating their lunch, to make the 952 metre climb up
this holy mountain. Several walkers comment on our heavy packs as we arrive at
the summit cross to join a score of other climbers celebrating attaining one of
the highest peaks in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region>.</div>
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The mountain is said to have taken its name from Saint
Brendan ‘The Navigator’, who legend suggests climbed to the summit around AD
530 and reflected here before setting out in a currach with a band of monks for
Greenland and the <st1:country-region w:st="on">Americas</st1:country-region>. His act of piety strikes a chord, for we too are contemplating our journey to Greenland this summer! The remains of Teampaillin Breanainn (St Brendan’s Oratory) are sited close to
the summit and are providing some shelter for a group of Polish hikers sipping
mugs of steaming hot tea. Disliking the loud shrieking and cheering of a large group
of teenage girls in florescent pink and green lycra who are swarming all over
the summit cross for umpteen group photos, we don’t hang around long, making a
rapid descent towards Brandon South Top. We stop occasionally to gaze down on
the paternoster lakes from the rim of the ridge from where we can now clearly see the
steep pathway zig-zagging its way up from Loch Chom an Chnoic to the <st1:city w:st="on">Brandon</st1:city> ridge. The sound
of rushing water from a series of waterfalls mixed with human voices are borne
upward on the wind and I finally spot several groups of people sunbathing close
to the various lakes. Beyond the golden brown Faha Ridge, the aquamarine ocean
looks divine. We follow the progress of a red and white bauxite ship leaving
the confines of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Brandon</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Bay</st1:placename></st1:place> for the open ocean,
having delivered its cargo to the aluminium smelter at Aughinish in the Shannon
Estuary.</div>
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A sinuous stone wall now makes an appearance, built probably
to prevent sheep from plunging to their death over the edge of the ridge above.
By now hungry, we stop in a sheltered spot behind this old wall where the sun beats
down on us relentlessly as we fire up our stove to boil some water for a packet
of freeze dried food. The light weight but high <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">carb</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place>
House salmon and potatoes in a dill sauce is very tasty indeed, and is one of
the products we are road testing for our wilderness trekking later this summer.
Suitably rested and refreshed, we follow the wall until we are almost below
Brandon South Top. Here we clamber over it, and, leaving our rucksacks hidden
behind it, make the steep uphill climb to the unmarked summit. Yet more stunning
views unfold; particularly fine is the series of waterfalls leading down to Lough
Nalacken and Loch Cruite, with the stunning panorama continuing towards
Fermoyle Beach and Cloghane nestled on the southern shore of Brandon
Creek, where the tide is beginning to come in.</div>
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From here the route drops down to a grassy col and then
begins to climb very steeply up the rocky side of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Brandon</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Peak</st1:placename></st1:place>.
In the lee of the mountain, the air is still and the heat, reflected off the
sandstone, is stifling. I begin to sweat profusely and although lighter than yesterday, I still strain under the weight of my pack. Martin, carrying more than me, lags way behind, clearly struggling in the heat which he does not like at all! It is a great
relief to finally reach the summit cairn where we are revived by a refreshing
breeze blowing in off the sea. Here we feast our eyes on a truly magnificent landscape bathed in
the warm tones of late afternoon sunshine. The tide is now fully in at Brandon
Creek and looking west down through the valley of the Feohanagh River towards
Smerwick Harbour into the glassy glare of the sun now low in the sky, are the Blasket Islands, An Tearacht rising like a pyramid from the steel grey ocean. Looking
towards the southeast, I can clearly see the glint of glass and metal of cars
parked at the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Connor</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Pass</st1:placetype></st1:place>, and my eye follows
the line of hills we will traverse tomorrow morning culminating in An Bhinn
Dubh above the car park. To the right of Slievanea, soaring above the pass, is the deep blue <st1:placename w:st="on">Dingle</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Bay</st1:placetype>
and a horizon crowded by literally dozens of smoky grey peaks on the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Iveragh</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Peninsula</st1:placetype></st1:place>. I also see that there will be
numerous more loughs feeding the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Cloghane</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place> to enliven one’s eyes
en route.</div>
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Ahead of us is the grassy rock strewn ridge connecting <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Brandon</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Peak</st1:placename></st1:place> with Gearhane, which has been
whittled down by the action of ice to a knife edge arête as it approaches
Gearhane. I tentatively navigate the rocky obstacles and try not to think too
much about how serious a fall might be here with a heavy rucksack as I cross
the arête with the ground falling away steeply and dramatically on both sides.
I am relieved to reach the grassy summit and after enjoying the views down over
the partially hidden Loch an Mhónáin, which is so blue it looks as if it has
pigged out on the entire sky, and the spiky shadows of Brandon Peak and Gearhane
cast on the golden bog below, we clamber over a metal gate which inexplicably does
not open and head off down the steep and boggy southern slope of Gearhane to locate
a camping spot.</div>
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After much searching amid the squelching bog for a dry
enough spot to pitch our tent that is out of the wind, we find a bone dry, level,
grassy area close to a bog pool and in the lee of a peat hag looking down the
Feohanagh valley to the Three Sisters, the ocean and the Blasket Islands. Serenaded by the song of
skylarks, we lie inside our tent enjoying the warm sunlight streaming in through
the open flaps. The sinking sun enflames the golden grasses and russet heather
as it descends towards the horizon where it enters a horizontal bank of cloud
far out to sea. It sails downward through the cloud, a throbbing red disc
broken by thin bands of white cloud so that it resembles the red giant,
Jupiter, before it vanishes from sight. By degrees, the sky turns from tangerine,
to maroon, through neon pink and finally majestic purple. We are eating our dinner when the first stars
wink in the heavens and turn into our sleeping bags as the opal like moon floats up over the bog behind us.</div>
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<h3>
<b><span style="color: #990000;">Gearhane to Cloghane</span></b></h3>
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The sight of the moon floating like a paper lantern in a mauve
predawn sky above the brownish-pink <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mount</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Eagle, the Three Sisters</st1:placename> and the steel grey <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Blasket</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Islands</st1:placetype></st1:place> is a sight I will never forget.
I lie cocooned in my sleeping bag watching the shimmering pearly moonlight dim as the rising sun claims the sky, swallowing the
remaining stars as the moon is banished below the horizon. The morning is calm
and still, the sky somewhat overcast with thick bands of cloud in various hues
of apricot and smoky grey, and the landscape is bathed in countless shades of
sepia. But the cloud is high, there isn’t the least threat of rain in the air
and we expect it to burn off later in the morning.</div>
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After a leisurely breakfast, we break camp heading out
across the bleak, windswept bog heath past brackish pools, weaving our way between
eroded, dank peat hags sending forth little rivulets of straw coloured water. We
begin the downhill slog towards Fallaghnamara to spot height 623 after which
the ground gets much steeper, but comprised of bog grass, moss and sheep
nibbled heather, is fairly benign. The views down to a lonely farmhouse sited between
An Loch Dubh and An Loch Gealare amid a cluster of small green fields at the
end of the road at Mullaghveal are particularly fine. A rough track zig-zags
its way up the mountainside from the farmhouse past the diminutive Loch na mBan
to the ridge, used no doubt by the farmer to gain access to his sheep. There
isn’t a breath of wind and the lochs in this valley are mirror flat, reflecting
the forms of the surrounding mountains. Distances on this soft spring morn are
hazed; valleys, cliffs, hills and sky all being a faint shade of luminous
grey-blue with no great detail. In the cliffs below Beennabrack, I seek out
Loch Tarbh, almost hidden from sight high up in its shadowy, rocky cirque,
while opposite, the steep slopes of Ballysitteragh lie in wait.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcFHU8H_3K5mEm-p_WU3X9LNcOmb5hWVclIqPIXKd1DsKv_YflQ_A10ivwP_0kHNK7wIfosSUMmQ2ZHPdnIFKxpnuM0G3KpAs3iWO4IeMrgZLVIpiZcWfxGt2xbf9K3efJ-7GFn7CUwFex/s1600/Brandon+Massif+(42%2Bof%2B47).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcFHU8H_3K5mEm-p_WU3X9LNcOmb5hWVclIqPIXKd1DsKv_YflQ_A10ivwP_0kHNK7wIfosSUMmQ2ZHPdnIFKxpnuM0G3KpAs3iWO4IeMrgZLVIpiZcWfxGt2xbf9K3efJ-7GFn7CUwFex/s1600/Brandon+Massif+(42%2Bof%2B47).jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
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The 300m plus pull up to this summit is steep but made bearable
by the fact that the sun has not yet broken through the cloud. We finally
arrive on a broad, flat boggy plateau where a jumble of stone slabs have been
placed to mark the <st1:city w:st="on">high point</st1:city>.
Expansive views back over the way we have walked are savoured. My eye alights
on the twin peaks of Gearhane and <st1:placename w:st="on">Brandon</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Peak</st1:placename> and then follows the jagged,
broken edge of the ridge all the way up to mighty <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mount</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Brandon</st1:placename></st1:place>
which overshadows all. On the green plains to the south are <st1:placename w:st="on">Dingle</st1:placename> and <st1:placename w:st="on">Ventry</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Harbours</st1:placetype>
with <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Valentia</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Island</st1:placetype></st1:place> just visible in the hazy grey distance.</div>
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The walking atop this undulating broad plateau, dull and monotonous
in its muted winter palette of earthy browns and greens, is now easy over short
bog grass with just the occasional patch of mire to avoid. Skylarks accompany us
all the way. Huge shafts of sunlight stream down from between widening gaps in the
cloud as it begins to break up in the strengthening heat, and patches of blue sky
appear over <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Dingle</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Bay</st1:placetype></st1:place>. The unremarkable and
unmarked summit of Beennabrack is something of a let down, but is amply
compensated by the stupendous view northwards from its vicinity, where one can
see the full extent of the valley leading to Cloghane and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Brandon</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Creek</st1:placename></st1:place>.
Nestled in its shady cirque below, is the deep blue spoonful of water called Loch
Tarbh, sited atop cliffs that plunge dramatically to the valley floor where
Lochs Ui Fhiannachta and Neil Phadraig lie motionless, reflecting the azure of rapidly
clearing skies.</div>
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We make speedy progress down to the bottom of Beennabrack
and in hot, late morning sunshine begin the climb to our last summit, An Bhinn
Dubh. The actual summit is unmarked, but most of the day trippers encountered
hereabouts do not realise this and gravitate towards a large pile of stones
forming an incorrectly placed summit cairn. Scores of people who have walked up from the Connor Pass car park are buzzing about
this so we do not tarry long, instead heading for the busy parking place where an
ice cream van is prominently sited. Here we remove our gaiters and make for
Cloghane down the scenic tarred road from the pass<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">.</st1:placetype></st1:place></div>
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<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on"><br /></st1:placetype></st1:place></div>
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The sun is hot on our backs as we set off and we are glad to
pass into the shade of the Maughanablagher cliffs into which this narrow old road
has been cut and which is now part of the Wild Atlantic Way. Jostling with the traffic on the narrowest, winding sections, we pass
the waterfall below Loch Doon, the small car park of which is crammed with
families and small children squealing with delight as they frolic in the cold water. After
this, the road is both straighter and wider and the views over the <st1:city w:st="on">Brandon</st1:city> massif that we had
just traversed are quite magnificent. On the valley floor, close to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">shore</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Loch Ui Fhiannachta</st1:placename></st1:place>, are the crumbling
ruins of an old settlement: a grassy boreen, the parallel ridges of lazy beds and meandering stone hedges are clearly visible. The heat though is stifling and my feet begin to
protest at the relentless pounding they are receiving along this hot, tarred
road. As we descend, the terrain gradually changes as the bog heath
with its dull winter palette passes into the glorious technicolour of the early spring
hedgerows lining narrow country lanes mottled with flowers and shaded by trees misty with blossom and pale green buds.
The still air is alive with birdsong and bees.</div>
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Some 8 km from the <st1:placename w:st="on">Connor</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Pass</st1:placetype>, we are walking along a quiet country
road above the southern <st1:placetype w:st="on">shore</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Brandon</st1:placename> Creek towards the pretty <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">village</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Cloghane</st1:placename></st1:place>
back to the Mount Brandon Hostel where we are greeted warmly by the proprietor, Mary,
who is awaiting our return. A good soul, she insists we take a shower to
refresh ourselves before our long drive back to the East Coast, a small act of kindness that is deeply appreciated. Right next door
to the hostel is O’Donnell’s Bar, a traditional Irish pub with a quaint thatched
roof. The sweet fragrance of wood smoke is emanating from its chimney which
entices us in.</div>
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Sitting next to the glowing embers of a homely log fire, I reflect
on our three day 45km trek. We have climbed through hundreds of millions of
years of geologic history, millennia of myth, and centuries of Irish history
and mystery. It would be possible to do the whole trek in one day with a very light pack in high summer, but why rush when you can take your time and savour this fabulous landscape as we have done? Indeed, we have been very fortunate to have had three consecutive
days of excellent weather in which to enjoy some of the most ravishing mountain
and coastal scenery in this island. And what better way to celebrate such a
memorable time in our hills, than with a delicious cold craft porter, <i>Carraig Dubh</i>, brewed right here in the Kerry Gaeltacht by Beoir Chorca Dhuibhne, Europe’s most westerly brewery? Why, even the label seems to sport the distinctive Three Sisters which were constant and iconic companions on our trek. Oh yes, Dingle has far more to offer
than just it’s majestic hills, picture postcard pretty villages, magnificent glacial valleys and the stunning coastline of the Wild Atlantic Way. Believe you me, a glass of this divine black stuff is
every bit as memorable! </div>
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Watch the video of our trek at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LJchmjQ6JhA<br />
To download a GPS track of our route see: http://mountainviews.ie/track/report/2898/</div>
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Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-26396193380788841262015-03-30T11:55:00.002-07:002017-02-04T14:23:10.862-08:00‘Wild Ireland’: A Two Day Trek and Wild Camp in the Derryveagh Mountains, County Donegal<h3>
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<h3>
<span style="color: #990000;">Day One</span></h3>
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The early morning air is crisp and penetrating as we leave
the comfort of the Errigal Youth Hostel to begin a two day trek and overnight
wild camp in some of the less well trodden parts of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Derryveagh</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountains</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
I look across to Slieve Snaght, caught in the glassy glare of the rising sun,
to see a low bank of thick white cloud being lifted up to roll over its domed
top before cascading down its opposite slope, a sure sign that the wind must be
fairly strong on higher ground. But down here in the valley above Dunlewy Lough,
on this fine morning in mid-March as we walk along the R251, the wind is little
more than a gentle breeze. Under a speedwell blue sky, the first flush of
spring abounds: birdsong fills the air, tentative green shoots sprout from
seemingly lifeless brambles, catkins dangle from winter weary boughs and alongside
the road, saffron yellow coltsfoot flowers, harbingers of spring, erupt from
amid ragged yellow grasses like condensed droplets of sunshine. This morning it
feels just simply good to be alive. </div>
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The views down over the Prussian blue waters of Dunlewy
Lough are exceptionally fine and at its easternmost end we spy the unroofed gaunt
shell of the disused Church of Ireland, the four pinnacles atop its lofty tower
looking for all the world as if they are endeavouring to pierce the space
between heaven and earth. As we pass further along the road, I spot the
magnificent outline of a Golden Eagle sweeping down the southern slopes of
Errigal; its ragged wing tips etched against the blue sky have distinctive
white patches on their undersides and white barring on the tail feathers,
meaning it must therefore be a juvenile bird. The sight of this magnificent raptor
gives me such an euphoric feeling; its effortless whirling on the spring wind
seems to epitomise the very essence of freedom.</div>
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After about 4 km we leave the road and strike off across the
bog towards Maumlack, the first summit of eight. As I dither by the bank of <st1:placename w:st="on">Owenwee</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype>,
contemplating crossing the tops of boulders green with moss and algae, I notice
how fronds of paper dry yellow grass have become caught on the prickly branches
of the nearby gorse bushes, a hint perhaps of how windy this part of <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region> is. Tentatively,
I launch myself across the rushing river towards the first boulder top and the
weight of my rucksack causes me to overbalance. I almost slip into the brackish
torrent! As the adrenalin rush subsides, with the aid of my walking poles, I
step cautiously onto the next slippery rock and finally pick my way across
several others to reach the opposite bank unscathed.</div>
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The ground is very rough underfoot and eroded peat hags, shallow
pools and patches of sly bog abound until the ground steepens and slabs of
weather-worn grey granite begin to become more prevalent. We cross a high deer
fence into the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Glenveagh</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">National Park</st1:placetype></st1:place> and as we
gain height, the iconic cone-shaped Errigal still clad in its autumnal apparel,
towers against the powder blue sky. Its pastel-shaded russet slopes and naked
scree remind me of an Impressionist painting. Signs of the on-going winter thaw
are everywhere: flattened, gelatinous, semi-transparent yellow grass; blackened
and slimy dead moss, lethal if trodden on; patches of weeks-old granular snow
that persist between the crevices of the granite rocks and that cling
stubbornly to the sunless, shady parts of the hillside. The ground is
absolutely sodden and every squelching footstep is an effort on the steepest
sections. But the views provide a welcome distraction, for this is magnificent
countryside indeed. In the northeast rises the distinctive flat topped hulk of
Muckish, one of a cluster of summits that local people affectionately term the ‘Seven
Sisters’, which also include Crocknalaragagh, Aghla Beg, Ardloughnabrackbaddy,
Aghla More, Mackoght and Errigal, the majority of which can be clearly seen. On
the opposite side of the broad valley, pale grey rocky Dooish rises to greet
the sky, framed in the near foreground by a score of tiny, brilliant blue bog
pools reflecting the cloud scurrying overhead, beyond which is Croloughan Lough,
the deepest blue scoop of water imaginable. And in the valley between both
ranges of hills, I can see cars crawling like ants along the threadlike R251.</div>
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As the ground begins to level out, a bitterly cold easterly
wind suddenly makes itself felt, whipping the water of a nearby bog pool into a
tempestuous frenzy, so much so that it is literally frothing at the edges. Facing
into the chafing wind, we find it hard to remain upright as we soldier on towards
the summit of Maumlack, the beehive cairn of which finally floats into view. A
bank of thin cirrostratus is spreading stealthily across the sky from the east,
lending the sun a watery luminescence and the landscape assumes paler tones. Heading
east, we pass numerous tiny deep blue bog pools on the one kilometre route
towards Croaghnasaggart, its unremarkable high point sited somewhere within a
hummocky broad plateau peppered with peat hags and granite rocks. The views
towards Errigal and its small sister, Mackoght, are particularly fine. The
gouged out eastern face of the quartzite giant floats into view, the sharp edge
where a glacier pulled away from solid rock eons ago clearly visible, as is a
huge white scar meandering its way upward towards the summit, testament to the
popularity of this, the highest point in County Donegal. It is possible to see
the slowly moving dots of people on this pathway.</div>
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After finding a semi sheltered spot to fire up our stove for
lunch and consuming a sumptuous Thai red curry and couscous with gusto, we
strike south-east towards <st1:placename w:st="on">Staghall</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype> past the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">shore</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Lough Naweeloge</st1:placename></st1:place>,
the surface of its indigo water agitated by the easterly wind. There’s
something about this spot that causes us to tarry awhile. Perhaps it’s the
patterns made by the wind rippling across the lake’s surface causing the water
to dance ashore in a series of crystalline waves, or maybe the way that a small
stream gurgles languidly over water smoothed granite, that creates a feeling of
blissful solitude.</div>
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The summit of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Staghall</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place> is marked by a
substantial cairn of granite rocks built round a grassy peat hag atop another
flattish plateau of eroded bog and exposed slabs of granite. Here we are
treated to 360 degree views of mountains all round. Not a road, farm, sheep or
person in sight gives this mountain a truly wild and remote character. We now
begin a steep descent down through a gully of dried yellow grass hiding a small
stream lying in wait to trap an unwary leg, towards Alteann Burn that runs through
the bottom of the steep sided valley like a miniature serpent.</div>
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Carrying a heavy rucksack all day has by now begun to take
its toll and the concentration required to descend safely from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Staghall</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place> has sapped my energy. We find a
spot where the water is low enough to cross Alteann Burn without getting our
feet wet and begin the steady climb towards Crockmulroney. As we attain height,
a thin sliver of blue appears at the far end of the valley towards Glenveagh:
Lough Beagh. Somewhere in the distance we hear the high pitched yelp of deer,
and although close by, they are so well camouflaged against the russet
landscape, we are unable to spot them. </div>
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The sun has now sunk below the top of the hill and we
continue our ascent in shadow. The temperature drops immediately and I begin to
feel cold and very tired. We decide to look for a place to make camp for the
night somewhere near Lough Sallagh in order to be close to a supply of water before
night fall. It seems to take forever for the lake to float into view, and as we
approach it, the ground is very hummocky and interspersed with tracts of bog.
We must ascend to find dry, let alone flattish, terrain where we can pitch our
tent. With pangs of hunger cramping my stomach, we begin the slog above Lough
Sallagh in search of a suitable camping spot. We are soon rewarded with a
fairly level patch of ground about five minutes from the summit below some rugged
granite cliffs that afford a good degree of shelter from the wind, and offering
grandstand views over the reed choked Lough Sallagh, the high ground towards
Slieve Snaght and the cone of Errigal. </div>
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With the tent securely pitched, we are delighted to find
that we do not have to descend to the lough for water – there is a small bog
pool just above us which will serve our needs adequately once filtered and UV
treated. A Thai green curry and noodles never tasted as good, and stomachs
full, we watch the sun setting in a mackerel sky over the high ground to the
west from the comfort of our open tent. By degrees, the sky darkens, the wind
drops and the cirrostratus cloud begins to clear just as Jupiter makes an
appearance, its silvery glow magically reflected on the surface of Lough
Sallagh below. The air temperature quickly plummets to below freezing.</div>
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Wrapped in my sleeping bag with a comforting hot chocolate, tasty
muesli bar and a nalgene bottle full of hot water to keep me warm, I watch a magnificent
celestial light show, as thousands of stars erupt in the purple firmament above
this wild and remote spot. Jupiter sinks lower in the sky, glows rose pink and
finally sets. We spend hours gazing heavenward watching the progress of the open
star cluster of Pleiades, a heavenly version of the Derryveagh ‘Seven Sisters’,
as it slides across the sky. There’s very little light pollution here and we
spot numerous shooting stars. Martin points out the less visible cloud-like
smudge which is Andromeda, a spiral galaxy 2.5 million light years from Earth
and the nearest major galaxy to the Milky Way, containing one trillion stars. In
our lonely camp far from human habitation, we might have been the only two
people in the world on this incredible starry night and I suddenly feel infinitesimal
and very inconsequential indeed beneath the vastness of space. Laid bare, I hastily
withdraw into the comforting warmth and security of my sleeping bag. Zipping up
the tent flaps, we close our eyes to the sound of the wind gently playing over
the canvas.</div>
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<h3>
<span style="color: #990000;">Day Two</span></h3>
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We are woken just before dawn by the deep trilling of red grouse
nearby and open the tent flaps to a shower of fine ice crystals and a rush of
bitterly cold morning air laden with the heavy fragrance of the bog. Our tent
is silvered with frost and the stars are retreating into a clear pre-dawn sky.
Leaving some water on the stove to gently boil, we make our way to the rocky
summit of Crockmulroney past frozen bog pools, icy peat hags and vegetation
white with frost. Close to the summit we find a rocky ledge facing the
reddening eastern horizon and erect the tripod and camera to capture the
sunrise.</div>
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Finally, the throbbing red orb of the sun pierces the
horizon, floating through a thin horizontal layer of cloud before arching
higher, passing through shades of vermilion, orange and saffron yellow before becoming too bright to look at with a naked eye. In this most magnificent of
dawns, the eastern sky is burnished apricot and the frigid landscape bathed in
rich warm tones. We leave the camera running and descend to our tent for coffee
and porridge. </div>
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Breakfast complete, we return to the summit to retrieve the
camera and clamber over gigantic shelves of granite eroded over the eons into
myriad shapes. The summit of this little known and climbed mountain is an
absolute delight, giving a true wilderness feel. No sights or sounds of human
habitation and 360 degree eye candy all round. From a protruding ledge of rock
I gaze down towards the chilled blue surface of Lough Sallagh, languishing in
the shadow cast by the mountain, and spy our tiny green tent tucked away on its secret ledge at the foot of the granite cliffs below. It looks lost in the enormity of
the landscape. The quartzite cone of Errigal, blushing pink in the rising sun,
strides high on the northwest horizon, to the south I can see Moylenanav and
beyond, the inky blue tops of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Bluestack</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place> range. It’s not
quite possible to see Glenveagh from here, but the sense of there being a deep
valley between us and Moylenanav is palpable. The sun is warm on my back as I
watch small puffs of white cloud begin to drift over the top of the high ground
westwards towards <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Drumnalifferny</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place> and Slieve
Snaght, but the wind, a Baltic Easterly, begins to strengthen as the sun rises.
Our hands are chilled to the marrow trying to commit the scenery to camera for
posterity and we are eventually forced to retreat to lower ground where we
break camp.</div>
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Lough Sallagh is just beginning to emerge from the shadow of the mountain as we pass by, the thin
sheets of ice that have formed close to its shoreline glisten in the feeble
morning light. Trapped yellow reeds stuck fast like insects set in amber
tremble in the wind as if trying to escape the lake’s icy clutches. Indeed, the
ground is frozen which makes progress over the bog much easier. As we head west
to scale the slopes leading up to Crockballaghgeeha over verglas smeared naked
granite, we spot numerous examples of water, trapped between rock and thawing ice,
dribbling downwards. These small rivulets resemble black tadpoles and are a
mesmerising sight indeed. So too is a scoopful of thin ice lying in a shallow
depression of a granite outcrop, which, through my polarising sunglasses, is
seen in all the colours of the spectrum.</div>
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We suddenly spot a distinctive arrow shaped formation of
black dots heading towards us from the west. As they approach, we see it is a
gaggle of geese migrating eastwards, a sure sign that spring is upon us,
although with the penetrating wind and Arctic air temperature, you’d be forgiven for
thinking so today! As they pass over head, we can clearly hear their honking
which brings a smile to our faces.</div>
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We climb steadily upwards past deep blue bog pools covered
in sheets of thin ice, past an unsuspecting brace of red grouse who take off
noisily, their strange cry sounding like ‘go-back, back, back’, and eventually
find ourselves on a wind blasted broad plateau of naked granite. We soon spot
the triangular summit cairn marking the summit of Crockballaghgeeha. Here our
tripod and camera get blown over in the gusting wind which forbids conversation
and numbs one’s face and hands to such a degree they begin to sting with the
bitter cold. But the views over this remote and hauntingly beautiful wilderness
more than compensate for this vicious easterly wind, and the scenery down over
the Poisoned Glen from just below the summit cairn is utterly ravishing. I find
a sheltered spot and rest awhile, enjoying the expansive views across to Dunlewy
Lough and Lough Nacung Upper, the great knuckles of rock that soar upwards from
the valley floor to form the northern ramparts of Slieve Snaght opposite and
the sinuous pattern created by Croananiv Burn way down in the bottom of the Poisoned
Glen. With such a dramatic landscape, it’s no surprise to learn that legends
abound, and the glen is said to have received its eerie name when the ancient
one-eyed giant king of Tory, Balor, was killed here by his exiled grandson,
Lughaidh, whereupon the poison from his eye split the rock and poisoned the
glen. The truth is perhaps more prosaic. <i>Gleann
Nemhe</i> in Irish means Heavenly Glen and on a day like today, it’s not hard
to see why. But an English cartographer mistakenly corrupted the spelling, for the
word for poison in Irish is <i>neimhe</i>,
and so the Glen became poisoned rather than heavenly. I prefer the colourful folk
story of a giant killer myself, it seems to resonate with the epic scale of
this incredible landscape.</div>
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Buffeted by the cruel east wind, we pick our way westwards
over naked granite and past large glacial erratics towards Crockfadda via its
east top. The views down into the Poisoned Glen from Crockfadda are
extraordinary and finding a spot in the lee of the wind, we pause for a muesli
bar. Clouds scurrying across a cornflower blue sky cast huge shadows upon vast
swathes of golden brown bog in the amphitheatre below and gambol towards the
slopes of Errigal, garlanding its iconic top. Dunlewy Lough and Lough Nacung
Upper never looked as blue and in the far distance I can see a strip of aquamarine that is the <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic Ocean</st1:place>.</div>
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We now press on towards <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Drumnalifferny</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place>
which is some distance away across very rugged and rough terrain through rocky
gullies and past umpteen bog pools, the shallow waters of which are roiled by
the gusting easterly wind which seems to have strengthened. As we gain height,
it becomes apparent that winter has yet to release its icy grip on the highest
ground despite the abundant signs of approaching spring in the valley below.
Slieve Snaght is streaked with snow, snarling bog pools are ringed with slushy
ice and exposed peat hags ooze dripping icicles. Finally we arrive atop a plateau
studded with glacial erratics and comprised of flat granite outcrops that
resemble a pavement with wiry grass growing between. Locating the small summit
cairn of granite stones, we pause momentarily to appreciate the superb views north-eastwards
to the majestic line of tops from Muckish to Errigal and back along the high
ground we had just traversed towards the summit of Dooish, gleaming pale grey
with rock. Reason enough to save this walk for a fine day, but also because in
mist the terrain round here could be treacherous. The action of ice has created
sheer northern and western craggy faces with vertiginous drops into the
Poisoned Glen.</div>
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The terrain between Slieve Snaght and Drumnaliffernn is a
high and wild ice scoured wilderness of desolate bog studded with loughs and
granite buttresses and outcrops, time-weathered into fantastical shapes, some
resembling the masonry of Incan temples with their myriad eroded joints. The
weather now begins to take a turn for the worse as the sun is swallowed by a
bank of grey cloud approaching from the east, the mercury plummets and the wind
gusts with gale force strength causing the bog grass to hiss loudly in protest.
We find it hard to remain standing at times and after crossing a deer fence out
of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Glenveagh</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">National Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>, we pass above Lough
Atirrive and is diminutive twin, grey and moody amid the wind tormented russet
bogland. By now famished, we head towards the rocky shore of Lough Maumbeg, hemmed
in on one side by towering granite cliffs, its deep grey waters agitated by the
wind which we manage to shelter from just about enough in order to fire up our gas
stove for a hot meal. The cold is so intense that the gas really struggles to heat
the water for our freeze dried meal which we consume ravenously. It’s too cold
to remain still for any length of time, and bellies full, we plough on toward
the broad saddle of exposed granite and eroded bog between Drumnaliffernn
Mountain and Slieve Snaght, which is living up to its name. Dirty patches of granular snow cling
stubbornly beneath peat hags on its eastern slopes, we pass by a bog lough that has crystalline rings of crusty ice all
along its shoreline and, as we make our descent towards Lough Slievesnaght,
it feels like we have entered a sub-zero wind tunnel. We eschew climbing Slieve
Snaght in such inclement weather conditions and opt to descend to Lough Maam
via a col leading off the saddle.</div>
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The terrain down through the col is surprisingly benign, not
too steep or boggy and we finally breathe a sigh of relief to be out of the
infernal wind! Lough Maam soon floats into view, an almost circular scoop of
grey water ringed with granite boulders set amid a russet amphitheatre of boggy
ground. We enjoy a few minutes by its shoreline before beginning the slow
descent down towards the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Devlin</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place> over ground that is
harsh and unforgiving, ankle breaking terrain of large tussocks tangled amid
wiry heather and dwarf alder and everywhere, patches of boot sucking bog.
Progress is slow and I’d hate to be traversing this valley on an airless day at
the height of midge season!</div>
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The cloud is beginning to break up a little as the sun
slides lower in the western sky, flooding swatches of the russet bog with golden
pools of light. The views back up towards Slieve Snaght and the buttresses of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Drumnaliffernn</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place> are grand indeed. But the
minutiae of detail do not escape our attention for there is immense beauty in
these seemingly desolate boglands for those who care to look. Underfoot is a riot of colour - magenta, rose,
cadmium lemon and olive green - a miniature world of various feathery-edged and
star shaped mosses and the first barely visible green shoots sprouting from winter weary
heather. We happen upon a rabbit; too startled to bound off across the bog, it cowers
frozen in fear as we pass by.</div>
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Heading north, Errigal, massive and pink hued in the setting
sun, now completely fills our field of vision. As we approach the bottom reaches
of the valley, the ground drops steeply causing the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Devlin</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place>
to enter a small gorge. Filled with oak trees, this hidden grove next to the rushing
river will be delightful in summer. We finally come to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Owenwee</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place>
which we manage to cross close to its junction with Croananiv Burn. Here it is shallow enough to hop
across the tops of some exposed but slippery boulders, but if in spate, it would be preferable to use an old stone bridge about 60 metres away that will bring you safety over Croananiv Burn. We scramble up the bank to hit a stony boreen and before long we join the tarmac road past the disused Church of
Ireland which we had looked down on yesterday from the R251. Long deprived the succour of a congregation, its gaunt outline
silhouetted against a darkening sky exudes a deep melancholy.</div>
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As darkness falls, we walk uphill to meet the R251, and, by
the light of our head torches, complete the 2.5 km back to the excellent Errigal
Youth Hotel where, after a very welcome hot shower, we feast on a dinner of
fillet steak washed down with craft ales. Thirty five kilometres and two days
spent in one of the least travelled parts of the island and we had not met with
a single soul. In this remote and pathless wonderland seemingly untrodden by
humankind, we might have been the only people left alive in the world. Many visitors experience the scenic wonders of the <st1:placename w:st="on">Derryveagh</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountains</st1:placetype> by climbing the higher peaks of Muckish or Errigal, but for a true, unadulterated taste of wild <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region>, the
way that we went really takes some beating. </div>
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Watch the film of our two day trek and wild camp at:</div>
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6fvjQhdU4Rw<br />
<br />
Download a GPS track of our route at:<br />
http://mountainviews.ie/track/report/2835/</div>
Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-32907862721754586782015-02-06T08:42:00.001-08:002016-12-06T03:47:39.507-08:00A Winter Road Trip Round Iceland<h3>
<span style="color: #990000;">The First Taste of Iceland</span></h3>
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<span lang="EN-IE">The sky
above <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mount</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Esja</st1:placename></st1:place> begins to turn candy floss pink as
the setting sun slides behind a thin bank of grey cloud stealthily creeping in from the
west. The raucous cries of numerous seabirds fills the air and a frigid wind
blows in off the restless <st1:place w:st="on">North Atlantic</st1:place>
sending waves crashing and foaming onto black shelves of basaltic rocks below.
Ice encrusted stems of withered yellow grasses nearby, a memory of warmer times,
put up a feeble protest, while a gaggle of grey geese saunter right up close to
where I’m standing, seemingly impervious to my presence as they busy themselves
pecking and foraging through the icy grass. Very soon the beam of a nearby
lighthouse’s beacon sweeps across the majesty of this volcanic landscape, a few
hazy stars appear in the night sky and thoughts inevitably drift towards finding
a warm and cosy refuge from the intense cold. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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The sun doesn’t
rise here in January until 10.45 am and the daylight hours are short, with the
sun setting by around 4.30 pm. We have explored downtown Reykjavík today,
enjoying the colourful painted shop-fronts in narrow streets with pleasant vistas
down to the Sæbraut and the moody grey-green ocean, fascinated by the misty
exhalations rising into the cold air from subterranean geothermal sources that
power this city. A capital of just 120,000 souls, Reykjavík has a provincial
city feel to it, small and intimate, and above all friendly, boasting a
cornucopia of vibrant coffee shops, chic restaurants and happening bars. It also feels like a city on the move again after the calamitous financial crash of 2008. Cranes
soar over the cityscape as old meets new and nowhere is this more evident than at
the Old Harbour, where a world class concert hall, the <i>Harpa</i>, an imposing Rubik’s cube-like glass structure, has been built.<br />
<br />
On foot
it’s possible to visit most of the main attractions such as the rocket-shaped Hallgrímskirkja
Lutheran Church which soars into the sky like something from a futuristic
sci-fi movie, its columnar construction meant, no doubt, to imitate the pillars
of basalt rock that characterise the geology of the island. In front of the
church is an imposing statue of Leifur Eriksson, reputed to be the first Viking
to have discovered America, but our favourite attraction is the sculpture on
the Sæbraut by Jón Gunnar Árnason dubbed ‘The Sun Voyager’. Described as ‘a dreamboat,
an ode to the sun’, I am captivated by its angular shape, the strange melding
of the ribs of the boat with the skeletal forms of its human crew. It’s
certainly living up to its name, as the metal is burnished and set aflame by the mid-afternoon sun lending it an ethereal quality, etched as it is against the chilled
background of cold sea and snow covered mountain peaks, sending my camera into
rhapsody.<br />
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It’s
evening now and in the heart of Reykjavík, the quaint <i>Laekjarbrekka</i> wooden restaurant with its rust red roof encrusted
with snow, looks like something out of a fairy story, the inviting light from
its windows casting a golden glow over the blanket of crystalline whiteness
surrounding it. Dining out in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland</st1:place></st1:country-region>
is a truly exciting experience as you really have to be here to eat Icelandic
fare. We order the <i>þorramatur</i>, tasters
of some traditional dishes, including wind dried fish with butter, dried
seaweed, minke whale tataki, smoked wild goose with crowberries and the famous <i>hákarl</i> - fermented shark - which is
beautifully presented on a rustic wooden platter. The minke whale is a true
delight, rich, tender and flavoursome, not at all fishy tasting, more like high
quality steak, and the smoky taste of the goose is not overbearing and is well
complimented by the tangy crowberries. I am less enamoured with the dried fish
and butter, which although not unpleasant tasting, takes some time to rehydrate
in my mouth. But the seaweed, dried to a crisp, is worse still. I spend minutes
passing it round my mouth before it is pliable enough to swallow without
tearing my gullet to shreds. The chewy, rubbery texture and strong iodine taste
do little for me.</div>
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The
fermented shark is undoubtedly the thing all tourists want to try. It has
something of a reputation, no doubt to do with its unusual curing process. The flesh of the Greenlandic shark is poisonous when freshly killed, due to a high concentration
of urea and trimethylamine oxide. But beheading and gutting the shark and then
burying the carcass under a mound of sand and heavy rocks, ensures the uric
acid breaks down and toxins are pressed from the flesh. After 6-12 weeks,
depending on the season, the carcass is dug up and then cut into strips and
hung to dry for a further several months, after which it is edible. The two dull
white cubes stare at me through the glass of their sealed Kevlar jar. I pop the
lid and the smell of ammonia instantly hits my nose like a sledgehammer and
makes my eyes smart. I quickly thrust one of the cubes into my mouth and begin
to chew. A hot, fishy taste mixed with ripe stilton erupts on my tongue. It’s somewhat chewy, but I’d
be lying if I said it was unpleasant. The smell of ammonia is undoubtedly much
worse than the taste of the flesh itself and I wash it down with one of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Iceland</st1:country-region></st1:place>’s
amazing beers.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">I don’t
know what it is about places at the far ends of the world, we experienced the
same in <st1:place w:st="on">Patagonia</st1:place>, but the craft beers and
ales are truly exceptional. I am particularly taken by the island’s toasted
porters and stouts: rich, warming, many with a high alcohol content, the
perfect antidote to the bitter Icelandic winter! During my stay I try as many
as possible. Brewed using only the finest ingredients and water that has tumbled down glaciers or percolted through the country's basalt, <i>Icelandic Toasted Porter</i> by the Einstök
Beer Company, a pitch black beer with notes of espresso and dark chocolate; <i>Lava</i>, a divine smoked stout with
flavours of anise, smoky peat, roasted malt, coffee and cocoa by the Ölvisholt
Brugghús; <i>Garún</i>, jet black with aromas of liquorice, chocolate, molasses and burnt rye
bread, inspired by the heroine of the Icelandic fairytale, <i>Djákninn á Myrká</i>, and the caramel chocolate </span><i>Myrkvi Nr.
13</i>, with hints of fruit and spice, both brewed by the Borg
Brugghús, are particularly memorable. We agree that the heady honey coloured <i>Vatnajökull </i>ale delicately flavoured
with Arctic thyme, also by the Ölvisholt Brugghús, which takes its water from
the glacier of the same name hence its strap line, ‘frozen in time’, will be
our drink of choice when we return in the future to conquer its namesake and
Iceland’s highest peak! A word of warning though: a bottle of beer here will
hit you hard in the pocket, being anywhere from 5-8 euro depending on the product,
so it’s wise to stock up at the duty free shop at Keflavík International Airport on
arrival where some of the most popular brands are available.<br />
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<br />
There
follows a dreamy, frothy cream of langoustine soup and pan fried fillet of
wilderness lamb, a fragrant, tender meat from an animal that spent its short
life eating only mountain grass, wild herbs and berries. This comes with a grilled
langoustine and potato terrine with thyme sauce served on a bed of crunchy vegetables,
a welcome change from the mushy, bland offerings at many restaurants. Engorged,
we still find room for the delicious dessert consisting of an oatmeal based ‘cheesecake’
made with local <i>skyr</i>, a cultured
dairy product, similar to strained yogurt, served with a blueberry sorbet which is pleasantly sharp and cuts through the sweetness of the pudding beautifully. <i>Laekjarbrekka </i>prides itself on only
using locally produced or foraged food, cashing in no doubt on the ‘New Nordic
Cuisine’ scene which has seen <i>Noma</i> in
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Copenhagen</st1:city></st1:place> win
a string of international accolades and awards. Our meal here has been absolutely
delicious, inventive, impressively presented and the table service, friendly
and efficient. The only blot on the evening is the hefty bill: over 150 euro!</div>
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<h3>
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="color: #990000;">The Golden Circle</span></span></h3>
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It’s pitch
black as we begin the early morning journey to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Þingvellir</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">National Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
a World Heritage Site. Flurries of snow sweep across the lunar landscape
created by past volcanic eruptions which spewed vast lava flows across the area
around Reykjavík. Being in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland</st1:place></st1:country-region>
feels like being on the very top of the world. The cold, salt laden sea air is
harsh and unforgiving, the ground twisted and contorted by volcanic activity where
little but moss seems to thrive and the low-slung wooden houses, painted white,
red, blue, yellow and green, rise defiantly from the land. It’s no surprise to
me that this island has bequeathed to humanity some of the most compelling sagas
ever written by man or that people believe the island’s snow-capped mountains
and volcanic chasms to be protected by trolls and elves; the landscape is primordial,
mystical, of epic proportions and absolutely demands this passionate and
otherworldly connection to it.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">We arrive
at the <st1:placename w:st="on">Þingvellir</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">National Park</st1:placetype> as the feeble light of day begins to
illuminate <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Þingvallavatn</st1:placename></st1:place>, an enormous ragged-edged
pewter dish fed by serpentine rivers of chilled mercury and fringed by shield
volcanoes. <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland</st1:place></st1:country-region>
sits astride the Mid-Atlantic Ridge which separates the Eurasian and North
American tectonic plates; here at Þingvellir the earth is literally tearing
itself apart as evidenced by numerous fissures and cracks that scar the
landscape. A Busload of tourists from Reykjavík on the <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Golden Circle</st1:address></st1:street> tour arrive and begin to
move slowly down through a fissure towards the site of the Alþing. Þingvellir
translates as ‘Parliament Plains’, and nowhere symbolises the history and
spirit of the Icelandic nation quite as this place does. Reputed to be the
oldest parliament in the world, the Alþing general assembly was established by
Viking settlers around 930 and continued to convene here until 1798. Considered
geographically well located in terms of the main tracks and population centres,
with slopes and flat plains set up against a rocky cliff, there was also
plentiful pasture, firewood and water. There’s no denying the sense of history
that oozes out of the imposing cliff faces and rises from amid the barely
visible footprints of ancient booths.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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From the
site of the Alþing we watch the newly risen sun, a match-head blazing white hot
and amber, light the spire of a church above the bank of the Öxará River in pin-sharp
detail before being suddenly extinguished, snuffed out by a bank of grey cloud.
Large flakes of snow begin to fall and before long the hard outlines of the surrounding
rocky cliff faces are softened. In this icy, monochrome world, the distant
forms of tourists moving slowly upslope through the fissure towards the car park look like the
matchstick figures from a Lowry painting.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">We head off
towards the Haukadalur geothermal area where the Stokkur Geyser attracts swarms
of day trippers who line the perimeter fence two deep in places. I am very
surprised by how busy Southern Iceland is in early January, testament no doubt to
the success of budget airlines such as Wow and Easy Jet which are flying with
increasing regularity and cheapness from various parts of Europe and/or the USA.
Stokkur is rather like Old Faithful in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Yellowstone</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">National Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
reliably erupting on average around 20 metres high every 4-8 minutes. Through
the gently moving clouds of misty vapour, the water in the circular vent rises
and falls, as if teasing spectators to guess when it will erupt. Finally, a
large aquamarine bubble swells to fill the cavity and then erupts with a loud
roar, shooting steam high into the sky, showering droplets of water all round
with a strident hiss as the water is sucked back greedily into the geyser vent
and the process of waiting expectantly begins over again. Across this strange otherworldly
landscape perpetually shrouded in misty exhalations, are numerous other bubbling
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">hot springs</st1:place></st1:city> and
steaming aquamarine pools fringed by white crystalline encrustations with
colourful algal blooms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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It is with
some reluctance that we pull ourselves away and plough on through the snow
buried countryside where groups of Icelandic horses with heavy winter coats and
shaggy manes stand patiently in huddles, shielding each other from the viciously
cold wind that howls across the landscape. A hardy breed of assorted colours,
the ancestors of these diminutive horses with doe eyes and a gentle nature were
brought to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland</st1:place></st1:country-region>
by Scandinavian settlers in the ninth and tenth centuries.</div>
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I can now
see the wide <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Hvítá</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place> flowing through the
bleak winter landscape, but it appears to literally vanish into the earth. As I
climb higher against a chafing wind, the sombre beauty of Gullfoss, Iceland’s
most famous waterfall, suddenly reveals itself, as a deep dark cleft in the
basalt floats into view fed by a succession of tumultuous cascades throwing up
vast columns of mist, as they foam and snarl down over gleaming black tiers of
rock with a roar like a jet engine. At the edges of the falls, the water has
been turned to ice, frozen mid-fall into a stupendous array of wax-like icicles
thick as a man’s waist and huge crystalline blooms resembling the frigid heads of
giant cauliflowers. The magnificence of the sight causes me to take a sharp
intake of breath. We descend via a treacherous icy pathway along a sloping
platform of rock to gain a closer look down into the chasm where the ice is
tinged ever so slightly turquoise. Chunks of ice float by just metres from me
to be consumed in the watery chaos below. The sheer volume of the water raging
down over the cliff edge mists my face and sends a deep rumbling through the
ground up into my body. I find myself suddenly wanting to yell at the top of my
voice in ecstasy at the sheer power and majesty of nature.</div>
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We hit the
road again just as dark clouds begin to fill the sky, swallowing any hope of a
sunset. The route takes us south towards the coast where isolated farmhouses
huddled beneath huge icy cliffs of volcanic rock with frozen waterfalls seem
lost in the enormity of the flat and snow blanketed countryside. As dusk falls,
it begins to sleet and we are glad to finally arrive at an über-modern hotel in
Vík, the southernmost village in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland</st1:place></st1:country-region>, where we feast upon Rúgbrauð
(rye bread) with bright yellow dairy butter, cream of angelica soup and pan
fried Arctic char with roasted fennel and potatoes. Freshly caught in a nearby
river, with its very pale pink flesh and clean, mild flavour, I prefer Arctic
char to salmon. We savour this simple and delicious Icelandic fare with a couple
of bottles of Icelandic Pale Ale by the Einstök Beer Company and a nightcap
each of Brennivín, Icelandic schnapps distilled and flavoured with angelica and
caraway.</div>
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<h3>
<span style="color: #990000;">The Primordial South Coast</span></h3>
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There’s
nothing quite like a waterfall to stir one’s senses and emotions, and one at
dawn is something to behold. After a hearty breakfast of smoked salmon, cured
meats, eggs and warm rúgbrauð with lashings of butter, we head back along the road we had
travelled the night before to the Seljalandsfoss waterfall. Candy floss pink
clouds begin to enliven a deep violet sky fading to soft apricot in the east as
we approach the silken body of water cascading over a high cliff. It’s far too
icy and snow bound to clamber around the back of the falls to gaze through the
cascade, so we content ourselves with watching the water trace ephemeral, veil
like patterns as it thunders into its mysterious deep turquoise plunge pool
ringed with ice and snow. As dawn breaks over the landscape, it tinges the
cloud boiling above the falls shades of cream and rose pink. So magical is
the sight, I want to stop time dead in its tracks in order to feast my senses on
this spectacle for more than a few fleeting moments.</div>
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Not far
along the coast on the way back towards Vík, we visit another waterfall: Skógafoss.
Seabirds whirl on the morning breeze, rending the air with their raucous cries
which mingle with the thunder of the falls as we approach. Located at the head
of a semicircular gorge encrusted with huge icicles which drip like molten wax
from the surrounding cliffs, Skógafoss is one of the biggest waterfalls in the
country with a width of 25 metres and a drop of 60 metres. So great is the
volume of spray, we are quickly silvered head to foot in fine droplets of mist.
Every so often a watery rainbow shimmers feebly in the struggling sunlight, but
each time fading before it can be committed to film. The cliffs here were once
those of an ancient coastline, but the sea has since receded some 5 kilometres,
forming a wide flat expanse of boggy, marshy ground. These old cliffs run
parallel to the new shoreline for hundreds of kilometres, demarcating the
border between the coastal lowlands and the Highlands of Iceland.</div>
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The
coastline near Vík could be taken straight from the pages of the sagas. Boiling
seas churned to milk race through sea arches, boom into huge zawns and gnaw
away at the stumps of sea stacks, said to be trolls turned to stone that were
caught by the rising sun as they attempted to put to sea in their boats. Here
the restless North Atlantic Ocean traces endless foamy patterns on the famous
black beaches, where visitors’ footsteps cast in wet volcanic sand last but for
a fleeting moment before being swept away, an analogy indeed for ‘the sands of
time’. With no landmass between Vík and <st1:place w:st="on">Antarctica</st1:place>,
there is nothing to impede Atlantic rollers from attacking with full force. The
seas are oft tempestuous, stormy, white horses careering landwards in a chaotic
race. Quite simply, Vík is primordial, elemental and fiendishly beautiful.</div>
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The journey
along the coast towards Höfn is marred by lashing rain and sleet and the road
is covered in black ice, making driving conditions testing. Dusk is falling as
we spot the nose of Vatnajökull (<i>jökull</i>
being Icelandic for ‘glacier’), gnarled and shattered into an intricate jigsaw
puzzle of thousands of pieces in brilliant turquoise, white and grey. The
largest glacier outside of the <st1:place w:st="on">Arctic</st1:place>, it stands
proud of the expanse of black sands that form a boundary between it and the
nearby ocean. We stay at Hali, a small settlement on a lake impounded behind a
long sand bar. In the distance I can hear the Atlantic breakers constantly
pounding the shore. The air is salt laden, fresh and penetrating.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">The country
style lamb soup served at dinner with huge chunks of fresh rye bread is hearty
and most welcome in this climate and, as this area is renowned for its fishing,
what better main dish to try than langoustine tails? Freshly caught in the cool
clear waters of the <st1:place w:st="on">North Atlantic</st1:place> and sliced
in half, the sweet, pale pink and white flesh is gorgeously succulent; these
huge tails are served with a crunchy salad, toast and a garlic dipping sauce.
Martin’s choice of lamb meatballs with potatoes, beans, red cabbage and
homemade rhubarb jam is not only colourful, but very tasty, although we both
felt that the portion sizes were a little on the small side. This wholesome
meal, with ingredients sourced locally or from the produce of the farm we are
staying at, is washed down with <i>Vatnajökull
Ale</i>, what else?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Before we
retire, we check a website for projected Northern Lights activity. Prior to my
arrival in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Iceland</st1:country-region></st1:place>,
I had erroneously thought that the <i>Aurora
Borealis</i> was always visible if the sky was clear. This is not the case at
all, and, along with fluctuations in the strength of the aurora tied into solar
activity, the movement of the auroral oval (a ring that is centred over the
Earth’s geomagnetic pole), means that even if the sky is clear, this does not
guarantee you will see the lights from your location in the Arctic at all hours
during the night. Websites provide accurate information about the strength of
the aurora and the position of the auroral oval in order to forecast the best
times for viewing them where you are. We learn that the peak time at Hali is
around 6.00 am, if the sky is clear, although weaker displays, which are
usually barely visible with the naked eye, are predicted to occur during the
night. Although it has now stopped raining, cloud still obscures vast swathes
of the night sky, but Martin, ever the optimist, sets his alarm to go off every
hour throughout the night in order to pop outside to gaze heavenward.</div>
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<h3>
<span style="color: #990000;">Awed by Ice</span></h3>
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His
patience is finally rewarded, and he shakes me awake at around 5.30 am. The
intense cold takes my breath away as I leave the guesthouse to clamber into our
jeep for a short journey down the highway from Hali where, away from all street
lights, an inky black sky stuffed full of stars arches overhead. Through a
shard of sky trapped between two spiky mountains, I suddenly spy weird trails
of green luminescence billowing upwards like silken scarves. These mysterious lights
tracing endless wavy patterns across the heavens instantly transport the viewer
to the time of the sagas, when Odin, Thor and Freyja strode amid these skies
like celestial storm troopers. Although frozen to the bone, we stand
transfixed, unable to pull ourselves away from this thrilling spectacle. However,
we have to leave Hali before first light to reach the rendezvous point for our
pre-booked photographic tour of an ice cave beneath Breiðamerkurjökull.</div>
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By the time
we begin our journey with five other photographers in a Ford Econoline 6WD, a
monster truck with huge snow tyres, the surrounding snow swept landscape is
beginning to blush sugar pink in the predawn light. Leaving the highway, the
Ford makes light work of a rough, snow covered track inland past a frigid
glacial lake to an all but hidden narrow cleft in a bank of snow. The sun is
just beginning to rise above a low bank of hills opposite and we hurry inside
to see the first rays of the day cast brilliant pin points of golden light on the
crystalline interior of the ice cave. The spectacle is fleeting, however, due to
rising cloud. I take time to soak in my surroundings, a crystal grotto straight
out of a Russian fairy story. Huge scalloped shaped walls of ice arch high over
my head, sculpted by the passage of a now frozen river. Most of the smooth
scallops end in a tiny pimple, a drop of water literally frozen in time. The
colours - white, through deep turquoise, petrol blue, charcoal grey and inky
black - are breathtaking.</div>
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I stare
intently into the translucent ice, seeing strange filaments the thickness of a
human hair, specks of black volcanic grit and myriad clusters of air bubbles, trapped eons ago. I learn to
read its coded message: stripes of subtly different coloured layers represent varying
periods of snowfall over many centuries. Whiter layers tell us that the ice
formed when the weather was very cold, because air was trapped within the snow making
it more reflective. Conversely, layers that are darker or bluer in colour were
created by snowfall in warmer or wet conditions when little air was trapped. I
spy smooth pebbles and small boulders stuck fast in the ice as an insect in
amber, and in places it is striated, testament to the relentless power of this
glacier which is slowly grinding its way through the valley.<br />
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We progress
deeper inside the cave past a void to the surface where the sunlight is
catching the far edge of the chasm turning it golden which seems to make the
ice below an even deeper shade of turquoise. I crawl through small passages
choked with snow, side branches of the glacial river which will begin to flow
again come spring, and stare open-mouthed at the huge main chamber, the central
attraction of which is most certainly a large stalactite, formed from water
seeping out of a hole in the roof of the cave. Around two metres high, and
gleaming with turquoise translucency, it spills onto the gravel floor of the
cave like molten wax. As we progress
further inside the chamber, the ice is older, more compressed and the shades of
turquoise and blue intensify. All too soon it’s time to leave this frigid
wonderland and we reluctantly withdraw from this secret place almost hidden
from view at the surface. </div>
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After being
reunited with our jeep, we head for the Jökulsarlón lagoon where huge icebergs
float majestically in front of the shattered nose of the glacier and a line of
imposing mountains. The water from the lagoon spills into a river onto a nearby
beach which we head for under a speedwell blue sky across which yellow-tinged
smoky grey clouds scurry. A stunning vista unfolds before our eyes: a
bejewelled shoreline of dazzling diamonds set against black volcanic sands. My
jaw drops at the savage beauty of it all. Myriad shards of ice of all sizes,
calved from Jökulsarlón, have passed through the nearby lagoon and floated down
the river to be washed ashore by the tide. The surf thunders onto the beach,
rocking even the largest of these icebergs, and I delight in the long,
withdrawing, grating roar as the waves retreat and then advance once more with
a strident hiss along the sloping shingly shore. The way the golden sunlight is
refracted through these scalloped gems, some white and translucent, others tinged
turquoise, is enough to send a poet into raptures and make an artist grab his palette.</div>
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After one
final communion with the serenity of the lagoon, we head east on the N1 towards
Egilsstaðir. The route weaves its way below towering snow-clad mountains
silhouetted against a candy pink sky which is reflected in the icy surface of
frozen brooks and rivers. Solitary shells of abandoned farmsteads seem to cry
out in their eternal loneliness, an indicator of the marginality of wresting a
living from the land in this harsh corner of the world. Before long the road
begins to weave its way in and out of numerous fjords under a velvety black sky
literally showered with stars. We stop once or twice to view the Milky Way and
to see if we can spot the Northern Lights, but they do not appear. After a
quick bite to eat at a rustic hotel in a small fishing port en route, we arrive
at our guesthouse in Egilsstaðir on a street so quiet you could hear a pin
drop. We discover to our delight that we have the place entirely to ourselves
and are struck yet again with the high standard of the accommodation that seems
to be the norm in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland</st1:place></st1:country-region>:
a clean, über-modern wooden interior, Nordic cool you could say, with crisp white
bed linen and minimal but tasteful décor.</div>
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<h3>
<span style="color: #990000;">A Communion with Solitude</span></h3>
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The ground
is frozen solid with snow piled high on either side of the street as we head
out of town en route to the Hengifoss Gorge. The sunrise through the skeletal
branches of some trees fringing the frozen far reaches of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Lagarfljót</st1:placename></st1:place>
is serene and stunningly beautiful. It’s bitterly cold as we begin the climb up
to view the falls at Hengifoss and before long we have to stop to don crampons
in order to move safely over the ironbound ground coated with ice inches thick
in places. Every heather sprig and blade of withered grass poking through the
crispy snow or trapped in ice, seems to hold a fragile crystal, and every water
seep or small stream has been frozen solid to the walls of the gorge where it
hangs in huge icicles and sheets of ice. Basalt columns line either side of a
barely flowing waterfall, pincered between the huge pipe-like structures that
resemble a giant organ. Way below us, Lagarfljót lies completely still, a sheet
of brooding gunmetal occasionally flooded with a ghastly luminescence from a
lurid winter sun. There isn’t another soul around, no one but us passing through this pristine, savagely beautiful place.</div>
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The
climb to the head of the falls looks deceptively easy, but the route which
meanders round the edge of the gorge is almost 3 km and involves an ascent of
about 400 metres, the upper part of which is very steep. Two cairns taller than
a man on either side of the gorge seem to guard its head, after which the
sombre beauty of the falls finally reveals itself. Hengifoss is the second
highest waterfall in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland</st1:place></st1:country-region>
(128m) and is said to make a noise like a jet engine when in spate, but today
it makes barely a whimper, almost paralysed by winter’s icy grip. A mere
trickle can be seen falling between vast swathes of turquoise tinged ice that
contrasts with the bands of rust red lateritic soil trapped between the layers
of basalt like the filling in a giant sandwich. We do not tarry long due to the
intense cold and the lengthening shadows heralding the imminent demise of the
daylight.</div>
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Its
twilight as we are driving along the eastern shore of <st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Lagarfljót</st1:placename>, past the largest forest in
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Iceland</st1:country-region></st1:place>.
To say that this country is arboreally challenged is an understatement, so
these beech plantations are highly regarded by Icelanders. We make for
Akureyri, the capital of the northern area of the country, a picturesque town
of quaint wooden buildings and gaily painted shops. The drive there takes us
across endless bleak, icy uplands in the northern part of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Vatnajökull</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">National Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
where a cruel wind howls across the naked landscape and barely a vehicle passes
us. We are fortunate that the bridge over the Jökulsá á <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Fjöllum</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place>
is still open, as there was talk of closing it due to the accumulation of ice
floes that have choked the river almost to the height of the bridge. This is
clearly visible in the dark as we pass over it. This part of the island gets
much more snowfall, and consequently, many roads are impassable in the winter,
including that to the Detifoss waterfall, the location for the opening scenes
of Ridley Scott’s <i>Prometheus</i>. Next
time!</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">As we pass
the geothermal area of Mývatn, betrayed by the characteristic whiff of hydrogen
sulphide, flurries of snow begin to fall. By the time we approach Akureyri it
is so thick we can barely see five metres in front of us and accumulations feet
deep lie in the road. I am thankful indeed to reach our hotel safely, and from
the warmth and comfort of the restaurant window, I delight in seeing the snow falling
heavily, depositing thick layers on the roofs of nearby wooden buildings in a
scene straight from a Christmas card. There’s nothing quite like snow to bring
out one’s inner child! The smoked duck with juniper berries served with sautéed
seasonal vegetables I order and Martin’s T-Bone steak are consumed with gusto
and much appreciated after our earlier exertions. We indulge in a couple of Einstök
Icelandic Doppelbocks, a limited edition winter celebration dark amber ale with
tastes of chocolate, toffee, malt and spices, as we relish the picture postcard wintery townscape outside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<h3>
<span style="color: #990000;">High Drama at Sundown</span></h3>
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We couldn’t
have known that our fascination with the winterscape would take an unexpected
downturn as we leave Akureyri the following morning, bound for the Tröllaskagi
(troll) <st1:place w:st="on">Peninsula</st1:place>. The cloud seems to be
clearing as we head north past the step hulks of mountains blushing rose pink
in the dawn light, below which tiny farmhouses cower in the vast snowy expanse.
On past a pretty Lutheran church with a blood red roof and spire, through the fishing port
of Dalvik nestled below a massive snowy mountain on the Eyjafjörður, its sleepy
harbour home to a number of eider ducks, to Siglufjörður, once the largest
herring fishery in Iceland. Weather-beaten houses in green, yellow, red and
blue line the road and huge fish processing sheds which look hastily erected of
wood and corrugated iron, bear witness to the former importance of the ‘silver
of the sea’. Near Siglufjörður are some of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s finest ski slopes, a
magnet for weekenders from Reykjavík and beyond. As we climb out of
Siglufjörður, the grey-green waters of the <st1:place w:st="on">Arctic Ocean</st1:place>
are revealed in all their moody majesty. We stop to view a rust red lighthouse perched
defiantly on the cliffs above the seething ocean, huge waves breaking onto the
jagged rocks below. The wind is so strong and so cold, it’s enough to cut you
in two.</div>
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As we make
our way along the bleak and exposed coastline of the Skagafjörður, the wind
strengthens to gale force and we can feel the car being buffeted by the gusts. The
sky turns an ominous battleship grey as we pull into a petrol station in the
middle of nowhere. Here we experience our first Icelandic smorgasbord. This is
true rural fare, echoing the past when the harsh climate and reliance on
subsidence farming meant that nothing at all was wasted. We spot <i>harðfiskur</i> (wind dried fish); picked
herring; <i>sviðasulta</i> (sheep head jam),
<i>hrútspungar</i> (whey pickled rams’
testicles), <i>slatur </i>(blood pudding), <i>hangikjöt</i> (lamb smoked over its own dung),
<i>glerhákarl </i>(‘glassy shark’ from the
belly) and softer white <i>skyrhákarl</i>.
All of these are consumed with a wide variety of side vegetables including
mashed swede, red cabbage, pickled beetroot, boiled potatoes and peas. But the
sight of <i>svið</i>, singed, de-brained and boiled sheep’s head, is the real gut churner! I recoil with revulsion at the
sight of the heads that have been split in two, their gnarled teeth exposed by
the shrunken flesh around their mouths and I admit to having to be absolutely starving
to even countenance eating such a thing!<br />
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<span lang="EN-IE">Upon leaving
the petrol station, the road begins to climb a hill over a pass. Suddenly, visibility
plummets to less than a few metres as spindrift lifted in the gale force wind
sweeps down from the surrounding hillside. Almost immediately it’s difficult to
see the snow markers at the edge of the road. At least we are not alone; there
is a vehicle in front of us and several behind. Unnerved, we decide however to
push on towards Borgarnes, where we have accommodation booked for the night. To
compound an already bad situation, it now begins to snow heavily and it quickly
sticks, making it near impossible to see the tarmac road. We almost collide
with a two wheel drive car that has stuttered to a halt in the middle of the
road and pass by several others struggling their way uphill. Martin is
concerned that stopping for such obstacles will mean we get stuck too. Night is
falling, the conditions are truly atrocious and visibility is now down to just
a couple of metres, making it hard to see the rear lights of the jeep in front
of us. Just as we are debating whether to call it a day and return to the gas
station, conditions improve as we enter a more sheltered valley and with great
relief, we opt to carry on to Borgarnes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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This, however,
is just an interlude, for as soon as we meet the next exposed mountain
pass, the spindrift again causes whiteout conditions making it almost
impossible to see the road. This time it is pitch black, there are no other
vehicles before or behind us and we inch our way slowly forward in the icy-white
maelstrom, desperate to avoid inadvertently leaving the road. Nothing seems to
be passing us on the opposite side of the road and I have the window wound down
trying to see the snow poles, but most of them are virtually invisible, their
reflective bands totally iced over. The cold is intense, the spindrift feels like millions of tiny needles as it blasts my face and virtually blinds me and I find it hard to
speak to Martin as the gale force wind snatches my words. To say I’m frightened
is an understatement. At least we have a near full tank of petrol, down
clothing, a gas stove, water and plenty of food in the car should we become
snow bound and have to sit it out until we can be rescued at first light.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Conditions
then suddenly improve again and we think we are in the clear. It’s still howling
a gale and snowing steadily, but visibility is much improved and I begin to
believe we will make it to Borgarnes after all. Ahead in the distance we spot the petrol station at </span>Staðarskáli <span lang="EN-IE">and Martin, nerves frayed to breaking point, suggests we stop
for a coffee. As we approach it</span>, we see the blue flashing lights of a
police car. The road ahead, which crosses the Holtavörðuheiði mountain pass, has been closed and we find ourselves among the 338 people
who are forced to take shelter here.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Martin goes into the
station and talks to some fellow stranded travellers, but it’s clear no one seems to know what’s
really happening. </span>It’s around 6.30 pm and there is talk of the road reopening after eight, as weather forecasters predict the wind will have subsided by then. We spot Search and Rescue members amid the throng of people, an
ominous sign, and eventually after sitting in our jeep for over two hours, one
of them takes our name and ‘phone number and tells us that the road will
definitely remain closed until the morning and some accommodation is being
sought for us. We inform the lady at the guesthouse we had booked in Borgarnes
that we have been stranded by inclement weather conditions and she kindly does
not charge for the room.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Another hour
passes and we are by now hungry. Reluctantly, we enter the station in search of
some food. It’s total mayhem inside; all the tables and chairs are occupied and people are sitting
cross legged next to young children sleeping on the floor. All that's available is a
greasy lamb burger and chips with coke, hardly the gourmet dining experience I
had been planning for our last night in Iceland at Borgarnes! The people we speak
to say they have never witnessed conditions as bad as this on the arterial road
through the country and seem shocked that it has been closed; most still believe it
will reopen before 11.00 pm. I do not share their optimism and my patience is
wearing thin at the lack of information about where we will be staying tonight.
As we return to the car park, I notice that many cars have gone, and I wonder
where. The wind has now dropped and we begin to discuss whether we should turn
round and try to reach one of the settlements we had passed through earlier to find
a guesthouse or hotel. I just can’t face the thought of bunking down in a
school hall or community centre, or worse still, being foisted onto a local
family for the night… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">It’s now
nearly 11.00 pm and the petrol station is due to close. This finally seems to prompt
a response from Search and Rescue and there is a sudden flurry of activity as
the remaining vehicles begin leaving the car park. We ask one of the officers
what’s going on and are instructed to follow them. After nearly five hours
sitting in a jeep or killing time in a crowded, noisy petrol station, they
escort us literally five minutes down the road to a hotel! I am smarting with
anger, realising that we could have been here over four hours ago, instead of
shivering in a parking lot! The Stadarskali I Hrutafirdi is like a throwback to
1980s <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">East Germany</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
tired looking rooms with vapid décor off a long, dingy corridor, but with a tariff
to rival some hotels in Reykjavík. However, it’s the only place round here and it’s
warm, clean, with a hot en suite shower, far better than the floor of a school or church
hall and we’re glad to be safely tucked up in bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<h3>
<span style="color: #990000;">Reykjanes in the Rain</span></h3>
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We sleep
soundly, and it’s well past 9.30 when we wake the next morning to find most of
the people who, like us, had been stranded on the highway have already left. The
road must therefore be open. Too late for breakfast, we set off past the petrol
station across a vast tract of open upland, on a day that doesn’t seem to hold much promise weather wise. The snow is so deep in places it
obscures the top of the snow poles and has all but swallowed most of the nearby
farm fences. It’s not hard to imagine how appalling the conditions must have
been the previous night with gale force winds, snow and spindrift howling
across this exposed landscape. Indeed, we soon see the results of the extreme
weather: umpteen cars abandoned at the side of the road almost totally encased
in snow and near the top of the pass, two stranded articulated trucks, one of
which is lying on its side, having lost control and skidded off the road going
downhill. Snow ploughs are busy clearing the highway and numerous crashed
vehicles are being towed away. We’re heartily glad we were not among the
unfortunate people caught out on this stretch of road when darkness fell last night.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">It’s
lunchtime when we enter a petrol station in Borgarnes and being gung-ho
gourmands, we finally decide the time has come to sample some of the local
‘delicacies’ from an Icelandic smorgasbord at a nearby restaurant. Neither of
us can quite bring ourselves to try the sawn in half sheep’ heads (<i>svið)</i>, but we choose some of the
cured meats. Despite liking smoked foods, I find <i>hangikjöt</i> (smoked lamb) a little too strong and salty for my taste;
the <i>hrútspungar</i> (whey pickled rams’ testicles)
horribly sour and cheesy with a texture like soft pâté which sticks in my
gullet; the <i>sviðasulta</i> (sheep head
jam), pink rubbery scraps of meat and offal congealed in a bland brown jelly and the <i>slatur </i>(blood pudding) simply too rich
and fatty. The whole comes with <i>rúgbrauð</i>
(rye bread), pickled red cabbage, mashed swede and baby potatoes in a creamy
sauce made of <i>skyr</i> which is quite
palatable. I guess if you lived here you’d get used to the taste of the food,
it’s certainly more wholesome than a McDonalds!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Due to last
night’s disruption to our travel schedule, and having to be at <st1:placename w:st="on">Keflavík</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">International</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Airport</st1:placetype> by late afternoon for our
flight back to <st1:city w:st="on">Belfast</st1:city>, we scrap our plan to
visit the Blue Lagoon spa, opting instead to tour the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Reykjanes</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Peninsula</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
As we leave the tolled tunnel under Hvalfjörður, it begins to lash with sleety
rain. Across the choppy bay we can see the futuristic spire of Hallgrímskirkja
in down town Reykjavík piercing the grey skyline. The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Reykjanes</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Peninsula</st1:placetype></st1:place>
is unremittingly barren, stark and almost uninhabitable, comprised of rough,
contourted piles of lava where only moss and lichen seem to flourish. Site of a former US base, on a
miserable winter’s day like this, it looks horribly bleak and uninviting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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We pass the
Blue Lagoon, the world famous upmarket spa set amid a lunar landscape of
fractured lava and snow capped volcanoes. Formed from the waste waters of a nearby
geothermal plant, the silica-rich milky blue water is so vibrant even on a dull day such as
this, it’s hard to believe the scene before my eyes hasn’t been photoshopped! We
will be back in Reykjavík this August, so the Blue Lagoon must languish on our
bucket list until then. The road takes us on to Grindavík, a small, wind-battered fishing village rising up out of gloomy lava mounds and comprised of rows of depressing wooden and shabby concrete houses, its grey, rain-lashed main street angrily reflecting the daylight. I cannot imagine living in such a bleak, exposed place and it's a relief to drive away.<br />
<br />
Geologically very active, nowhere else visibly shows the junction
in the earth’s crust between the Eurasian and American tectonic plates quite as
clearly as the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Reykjanes</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Peninsula</st1:placetype></st1:place>. We pass huge
geothermal plants spewing clouds of white vapour into the freezing air and in howling
wind and lashing rain, we walk up to see where the earth’s crust is literally being
torn apart at Sandvík. Here, a small footbridge has been erected over a major
fissure, which is a stunning example of a diverging plate margin. Despite the
foul weather, we can’t resist the urge to clamber down into it to walk between
the Eurasian and North American tectonic plates.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPUqhvebCcENa989An8t1YbTuEGN-uijaG_I361hqaNwkXUSnd1KXF22k7MvbtaREUrI6z98glwaVZmY8IZxpSz9ofwTyRd-2uO6MpBNMYCtsV5MNvn9mr3f5GKlk9JLvh09MQNMvIsLEU/s1600/20150126-151222-_IGP9569-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPUqhvebCcENa989An8t1YbTuEGN-uijaG_I361hqaNwkXUSnd1KXF22k7MvbtaREUrI6z98glwaVZmY8IZxpSz9ofwTyRd-2uO6MpBNMYCtsV5MNvn9mr3f5GKlk9JLvh09MQNMvIsLEU/s1600/20150126-151222-_IGP9569-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">An hour
later we are sitting in a bar at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Keflavík</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">International</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Airport</st1:placetype></st1:place>
enjoying our last Icelandic beer, an appropriately named <i>Lava</i>. Bags overloaded with a variety of Icelandic goodies, including
brennevín, birch and moss liqueurs and a selection of my favourite porters and
stouts, these bear no comparison to my overloaded memory bank stuffed full of
scenes from our week long road trip round this magical island with its warm inhabitants
and fine cuisine. After little more than a day here, superlatives fail you as
you bear witness to the utterly face-slapping scenery, the beauty of which can
reduce you to tears. A vast volcanic laboratory of gushing geysers, grinding
glaciers, magical mountains and wild waterfalls, you can't but sense your utter insignificance in the grander scheme of things set against such hyper-charged majesty. Just
as one beer here is never enough, one trip is not enough either. <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland</st1:place></st1:country-region> is
already calling us back...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-IE">We flew with Easy Jet from <st1:city w:st="on">Belfast</st1:city>
and made all our bookings for accommodation, restaurants, jeep hire and tours online before we left <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Ireland</st1:place></st1:country-region>. For a
visual record of our Icelandic trips, watch our films on YouTube:</span></i><span lang="EN-IE"> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sxdH-Anpbtk (January 2015) and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qqgmLerHgs (March 2016).</span>Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-34348649232102311332015-01-04T20:27:00.000-08:002017-03-04T14:32:55.390-08:00Climbing Mount Kilimanjaro, Tanzania, via the 7-day Machame-Mweka Route <div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="color: #990000;">Day One: The March to Machame</span></b><br />
Through the
dusty, chipped windscreen of the minibus, I get my first good look at snow clad
Kilimanjaro soaring high into an azure blue sky above rust red farmland and deep
green jungle. It’s late-November 2014 and we’re en route from our hotel in Moshi to
the Machame Gate to begin our attempt to stand on the roof of <st1:place w:st="on">Africa</st1:place>
at 5,895 metres. A wave of apprehension washes over me as I take in the sheer
scale of this dormant volcano, its south-western slope garlanded by a veil of
cloud that seems to hug it like a silken skirt. Over the course of the next week, we must
cover a distance of almost 48 kilometres with over 5,000 metres of ascent and
descent. The altitude will certainly make itself felt and I’ve heard stories of
incredibly fit celebrities including Martina Navratilova and Robbie Savage climbing
it for charity who have failed in their quest to summit. Statistics quote successful
summit rates of between 45 and 66 per cent on all routes (and we have decided against taking Diamox); people die on this mountain every year.
However, your chances of summiting improve the longer you spend on the
mountain, so we have arranged a seven day trek. But there is also the weather
to consider. We’re here during the season of the ‘short rains’ when the north-east
monsoon brings moisture laden cloud that falls as light rains, particularly on
the northern slopes of the mountain. There could be a lot of snow near the
summit…<br />
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We stop
briefly at a small butcher’s shop shaded by a giant banana tree in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">village</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Machame</st1:placename></st1:place>, a series of tin and wooden
shacks which sprawls for several kilometres along the dusty road to the park, where
one of our party buys meat for our climb. In contrast to the two of us, sitting
silently lost in our own thoughts, our guides, cook and porters, eight in
total, are all in high spirits, talking loudly and animatedly in Swahili to
each other as the minibus proceeds once more along the road to the Machame
Gate. It soon appears through the tropical vegetation, a large wooden
toblerone-shaped structure at the end of a line of small booths selling all
those must have things you forgot to pack – matches, paper tissues, loo roll, batteries - and things you
most certainly do not need, like Kili bracelets.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">We arrive
in the car park to find it abuzz with activity. Porters and guides are milling around
everywhere, unloading luggage, provisions and camping equipment from the roof
racks of several minibuses. We join around twenty other trekkers sitting in a covered
enclosure, while our team prepares our equipment. The area of the mountain is a
national park which has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site and it is
strictly protected. Consequently it is impossible to do this climb
independently as you must have a registered and licensed Tanzanian guide and assistant
guide(s) and a permit to climb which you pay for along with the park fees. </span><br />
<br />
We believe in sustainable tourism and always
try to use local companies so that our money benefits the immediate economy as
much as possible. We have engaged a Moshi-based company named <i>Kilismile Trails
and Safaris</i> to do our trek; they collected us at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Kilimanjaro</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">International</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Airport</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
arranged our hotel in Moshi and a three day pre-trek safari, and will return us to the airport after our climb. We are their only two clients and we find this company to be well organised, well equipped and half the price of a
British or Irish-based company. Porters are supplied to carry camping equipment, food and our personal belongings
(up to a maximum of 15 kilos per client) and to set up camp each day. A cook will prepare our meals. Rules governing the weight each porter can carry are
strictly enforced and a weighing station, which must be used to check in and
out of each camp, ensures that even the garbage is accounted for. Failure to
comply means heavy fines are inflicted on the offending trekking group and this
consequently deters littering. </div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">While we
wait in the shade, we tuck into the contents of the plastic lunchboxes provided by the company: a fried sandwich of sorts, two portions of fried chicken, a muffin, banana and
fruit juice. I study our fellow trekkers, most of whom look young, slim and
clad in new gear. A rather portly, middle aged
German man in shorts and brand new boots is strutting around the compound seemingly impatient to be off. After
some time, Hamadi, our guide, a tall, lean man in his late thirties who exudes
a confidence bordering on cockiness, instructs us to sign in at the park office
where we must provide our personal details: name, address, nationality, age, occupation
and passport number. We note that we are among the oldest trekkers; most are in
their 20s. Indeed, the majority have recorded their occupation as ‘student’,
although there are also a few doctors and engineers, a company director, a
couple of consultants, a surveyor and a moose hunter…</span><br />
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There’s
just time for a final visit to the bathroom containing a clean sit down toilet
(the last for a week!) and Hamadi signals that our group is ready for the off. Our porters have
already gone on ahead to set up camp and we pass through the green metal gates
of the perimeter fence and past a wooden sign wishing trekkers a good climb. We
have some 11 kilometres with an ascent of 1,210 metres ahead of us which
traverses a gravel 4X4 road for the first three kilometres. The going is easy,
but the heat and humidity is high. We soon turn into a well-maintained earthen
pedestrian-only path which looks mysterious and enchanted, mottled with
sunlight and fringed by a tangle of exposed tree roots. This weaves its way
steadily upward under a dense canopy of tropical trees, some over 10 metres
high from which lianas dangle. These include enormous camphorwoods, juniper, fig,
olive and wild mango. My eye alights on several dazzling patches of pink and
red flowers which are species of impatiens (<i>Impatiens pseudoviola</i>, <i>Impatiens
digitata</i> and the yellow tipped tuba-shaped <i>Impatiens kilimanjari</i>). Sprays of fragrant
pale pink begonias cascade through the tree canopy and their delicate flowers
litter the ground. The cries of tropical birds periodically rend the air,
although we do not catch sight of any to photograph.<br />
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The track rises along the spine of a steep ridge, although
the vertiginous drops to either side are largely hidden by the dense
vegetation. The trail is quite steep in places and several series of steps are
encountered which slows down many trekkers who are already clearly struggling,
including the portly German, sweaty, red faced and panting profusely. We make a
brief stop to finish off the contents of our lunchboxes allowing several porters
to pass by. Beads of sweat stand out on their foreheads. I am amazed at the way
in which they transport their heavy loads – balanced atop their heads – which
gives them a very upright appearance and they appear to glide along.<br />
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Just before we reach Machame Huts,
the vegetation begins to thin out rapidly, marking the boundary between the
cloud forest and the moorland heath and through gaps in the undergrowth I spy
an endless expanse of thickly forested ridges. Jungle gives way to spindly head
high heather, juniper and podocarpus, garlanded with wispy pale green bearded
lichen. We arrive at Machame Hut (3,021 metres) in just over four hours, having
really enjoyed what turned out to be an easy walk up from the gate. We find our
porters erecting the mess tent not far from the office where we have just
signed in. The tent in which we will sleep is already up and hot water is brought to us to wash away
the sweat of the day from our faces and hands. As the afternoon cloud begins to
thin a little, we discover that our camping spot offers a grandstand view of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Kibo</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Peak</st1:placetype></st1:place>
away to the east, and our mess tent is strategically positioned to take
advantage of this panorama.<br />
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We decide
to explore the camp for a spot to watch the sunset. The last trekkers of the
day, including the portly German, are finally arriving in the camp. Beforehand
however, a call of nature must be answered and I have my first experience of a
long drop. I enter a dimly lit wooden shack half hidden in some bushes away
from the camping area. It has no door, but once inside you must turn into an
adjoining compartment which offers some privacy. There isn’t room to swing a
cat and as I drop my trousers to crouch down over a narrow opening in the wet and
soiled wooden boards, a cloud of flies rises with a low hum. Now hovering just
feet from the hole, my nostrils are suddenly assaulted by the pungent sulphurous
stench of human excrement, causing me to retch violently. This had to be the
fastest pee in my life, and I literally bolt, coughing and gagging, from the long drop before I am
physically sick, hitching up my trousers as I go, a source of great amusement
to Martin. I don’t see the funny side at all. A quick pee is one thing, but I’m
now dreading having to have a crap tomorrow morning!!</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">From a
quiet spot in the west of the sprawling camp, we can see the twin sister of
Kilimanjaro, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mount</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Meru</st1:placename></st1:place>, which provides a
dramatic backdrop for the flaming orb of the sun to slip behind as day one
ebbs away. Not long after sundown, dinner is served by one of our porters. He
raises the lid of a plastic tureen with a flourish; ‘cucumber soup’ he says dramatically,
as its wonderful aroma fills the tent. I am famished and dunking slices of
bread into it, tuck in greedily, helping myself to seconds. The next course
consists of a generous portion of battered fish, chips and a mixed side salad,
washed down with black tea. If all of our meals are such a grand affair as
this, we’ll not be going hungry, that’s for sure!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span>
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Dinner
complete, it is now pitch black and decidedly chilly; by degrees the camp falls
silent as people turn in for the night. From outside our mess tent we can see <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Kibo</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Peak</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
its snows silvered from the light of an immense canopy of brilliant stars and
the mere sliver of a moon. A thrill of excitement radiates through me as I
anticipate climbing the mountain over the next few days. It has been a great
start. The omens are good.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="color: #990000;">Day Two: The Scramble to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Shira</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Caves</st1:placetype></st1:place></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE">I am still
sleeping soundly when one of our porters brings steaming hot mugs of ginger tea
to us around dawn. Poking my head outside our tent I am greeted by a clear and
crisp morning. Sunlight is flooding over <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mount</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Kibo</st1:placename></st1:place>,
etched against a cloudless blue sky. Delicious smells are emanating from the
nearby cook tent as well as a very animated conversation in Swahili between those
inside. I am constantly struck by how loudly the Tanzanians converse with each
other, which at times appears to border on arguing! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE">Dressed and
washed, we decide to eat our breakfast outside to enjoy the scenery. The sun is
very warm on my shoulders as I feast on a slice of succulent mango. This is
followed by a bowl of porridge, with seconds readily available, washed down by
black tea. We are surprised when a large platter of pancakes, toast, omelette
and sausages is set down in front of us; our guide informs us that we will
lunch at the next campsite, so we shamelessly demolish the lot! One of the
porters brings us cool water which has been boiled for our bladders and we
prepare to break camp. By now I need to answer a call of nature, the moment I
have been dreading. This time I wrap a bandana around my mouth and nose to
help prevent the stench and find a more modern long drop with a lockable door,
tiled interior and no flies, which was just about bearable!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span>
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<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span>
Day two is
a climb of about 5.5 kilometres in a northerly direction with an ascent of 818
metres to Shira Caves Campsite (3,839 metres). Although short, it is a mildly
strenuous climb involving some hands on scrambling along the spine of a rocky
ridge and petrified lava flows fringed with lichen clad giant heather. We seem
to set off at the same time as everyone else, and I can only imagine how
congested this route must get in peak season. Umpteen porters struggle by laden
with rush baskets and canvas holdalls atop their heads. I spy one carefully carrying
two dozen carton-packaged eggs by a piece of string, another lugging a camping
stove and gas canister.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Occasional
splashes of colour betray the presence of crimson gladioli flowers nodding on delicate
stalks; pale pink helichrysums (everlastings) with large saffron yellow centres,
and dazzling flame orange, red hot pokers. As we ascend, the trekking groups
begin to thin out a little which makes climbing a more pleasurable experience,
although we are keen to avoid a brash and loud Spaniard with a shock of black
curls and a grating American accent who seems hell bent on sharing information
about his bowel movements, nocturnal emissions of wind and the benefits of
farting at altitude with all and sundry. The final straw comes as El Cid lets one
go downwind which nearly floors us as we retch and gasp for fresh air in
the thinning atmosphere! Fortunately we’re much faster than his group, one of
the benefits we have over larger parties who must travel at the pace of the
slowest member, and soon leave him behind.<br />
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After trekking
for almost two hours, a short scramble up naked rock to a viewing point gives
magnificent vistas over the lushly
wooded slopes of the mountain sweeping down to the African savannah toward <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mount</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Meru,</st1:placename></st1:place> above
which fluffy white dots of cloud float. Ahead of us, snow clad Kibo glinting in the brilliant
sunshine begins to fill the sky. As we ascend higher the path narrows, weaving
its way along the crest of a ridge and the cloud begins to thicken, hugging the
lip of the Shira Plateau. Within ten minutes it has descended, shrouding the trail
in grey mist which blows eerily across the landscape swallowing most sound. We
are literally right at a small stream conveying glacial melt water tumbling
down from on high before we hear it. Our guides, Hamadi and Hussein, stop to
fill their water bottles.<br />
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<br /></div>
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The
vegetation begins to thin out now, more grasses and ground shrubs appear, and I
spot the mountain thistle, <i>Cardus keniensis</i>, with its beautiful cluster of electric
mauve heads. The giant heather is no longer as tall and seems to have less
foliage; its spindly, skeletal limbs bedecked with bearded lichen look highly
weird through the billowing mist. In a small gully below the ridge, I spot the
first tree groundsels, unique to Equatorial East Africa, a peculiar plant with
a trunk like a telegraph pole supporting dumpy candelabra shaped branches each
sporting a terminal leaf rosette. These ones are quite small, but impressive
nonetheless. After a clamber up an eight metre high rock face aided by some
concrete steps, we pause for a short break on a small plateau where we
encounter a pair of inquisitive white naped-ravens, large scavengers with
brown heads and a white collar, whose coal black feathers have a petrol blue
sheen. With their large, mean looking hooked beaks, I keep a sharp eye on this
duo as they hop about totally unperturbed, hoping no doubt to steal some of our
snacks!<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Of interest
to Martin, a geologist, are the fragments of obsidian that litter the ground
formed from the rapidly cooled lava of an ancient eruption. He breaks one open
to reveal its shiny black glass interior. The edges are razor sharp. As we
progress higher, the undulating path is less distinct and involves climbing
over and around large boulders with some tricky hands on scrambling. Several overhanging
caves are encountered, one of which has a small waterfall pouring picturesquely
down in front of it, a perfect spot to wash our dusty hands. Eventually, after just
under five hours trekking, the terrain levels, sheets of petrified lava from an
ancient eruption are encountered and a series of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">cairns</st1:place></st1:city> appear through the mist as we enter
the boulder strewn Shira Plateau.<br />
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Across from
a small stream the Shira Caves Campsite sprawls in all directions amid stands
of giant heather and we spend several minutes locating our camp in the billowing
mist. The silence is punctuated periodically by the clatter of pots and pans,
snatches of conversation from the porters and the raucous cries of white-naped
ravens perching somewhere close by, but invisible in the gloom. It feels
decidedly chilly as soon as we stop and we are glad to crawl into our tent for
a nap before lunch. We are soon woken by Hamadi who informs us we must register
our arrival and we set off in the cold greyness of early afternoon for the camp
office, passing trekkers just arriving into camp, including the portly German. Hamadi
and his assistant guide, Hussein, then take us a short distance away to see the
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Shira</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Caves</st1:placetype></st1:place>, basalt roofs blackened by years
of camp fires. He explains that the porters and guides used to sleep in here by
the warmth of camp fires, but this has now been banned, as collecting firewood
damaged the fragile ecosystem.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE">After a
hearty lunch we retire to the relative warmth of our tent to read, listen to
music and snooze before sundown. Martin is hopeful of a good sunset over <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mount</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Meru</st1:placename></st1:place>,
and we leave our tent to find an appropriate vantage point. On a petrified lava
flow overlooking a deep gully well away from the noise and bustle of the camp,
we wait to see if the cloud will lift. Intriguing vistas flash in and out of
view before finally, the mist begins to magically clear. A ghostly saffron
yellow ball hangs above the charcoal grey outlines of Shira Cathedral and East
Shira Hill and beyond, poking high above the churning mist now tinted a warm
shade of apricot in the setting sun, are Johnsell Point and Klute Peak, the
highest points on the Shira Ridge. Behind us <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Kibo</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Peak</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
bathed in golden light, rises majestically and we are surprised how close it
appears to be. Attention now turns to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mount</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Meru</st1:placename></st1:place>,
the dramatic backdrop for yet another spectacular sunset. The last rays of
sunlight catch the top of the boiling cloud alight in a thousand shades of
chrome orange and vermilion before the sun sets behind the pyramid shaped
volcano in a sky of burnished gold.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span>
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<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dinner is
soon ready and we retire to our mess tent for yet another feast: asparagus soup
followed by beef goulash with rice and green beans. Leaving the tent, the cold
of night hits us like a sledgehammer and we are glad of our down jackets.
Overhead, the sky is crystal clear and crammed full of stars. Despite the intense
cold, we saunter some distance from the camp to a secluded spot to set up the
tripod for some time lapse photos. Martin points out constellations we cannot
see in the Northern Hemisphere and the Magellanic Clouds (<i>Nubeculae Magellani</i>),
a duo of irregular dwarf galaxies, mere smudges in the night sky. Standing
beneath the shimmering Milky Way with snow capped Kibo gleaming in the
starlight is a truly exhilarating experience and it’s only the bitter cold that
drives me back into our tent and where my down sleeping bag and booties await, warmed
by a nalgene bottle of hot water!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-IE"><span style="color: #990000;">The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Battle</st1:city></st1:place>
to Barranco</span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE">It was frigidly
cold during the night and upon unzipping the tent, I am surprised to see that ice
crystals the size of spear tips have burst through the thin soil all around.
The tent is silvered with frost and I am thankful that we brought our own
Thermarest sleeping mats which we placed on top of the foam mattresses provided
by our trekking company for extra insulation. A good down sleeping bag is essential and I have brought my trusty Rab Andes 800, good for temperatures down to -22 degrees centigrade. Packing woollen long johns, a
long sleeved merino base layer and down booties to sleep in turned out to be a good idea too. In
fact so cold was it, that Hamadi and his assistant guide, Hussein, had crammed
another two of our party into their tent, while the four others huddled
together for warmth in the mess tent. The sky is piercingly blue and the
atmosphere crystal clear as I stroll across camp to use one of the long drops.
It is a bad choice, as the previous occupant had a poor aim. No one needs to be
confronted by a freshly laid turd steaming on the wooden floor boards before
being truly compos mentis!! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span lang="EN-IE">Breakfast
of fresh fruit, porridge, pancakes, omelette and sausages are served in our
mess tent. We leave the flaps open and I watch, amused at the antics of the
cook from a nearby group, who is quite a character. ‘Rasta Man’ sports an
impressive set of dreadlocks which he wears beneath a woollen cap in the
colours of the Jamaican flag, but it is his bright pink lycra leggings that
really catch my attention. All the other porters seem to know him and he is
clearly popular among his peers who jest loudly with him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Today will
be a tough test, intended to aid in the acclimatisation to altitude. Moving
from the western to the southern slopes of Kilimanjaro, the route covers a
distance of around 11 kilometres with an ascent of 788 metres up to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Lava</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place>
at 4,627 metres, followed by a descent of 641 metres to Barranco Huts at 3,986
metres. Our cook, Salimo, brings us a packed lunch rather similar to the fare
we had on day one and we set off slowly from camp, our boots crunching on the hoary
ground. The trail starts off relatively benignly, meandering
across a small stream fringed with phallic shaped lobelia and rises gently
across the ancient lava flows of the Shira Plateau studded with enormous
boulders blown out eons ago in one of the volcano’s violent eruptions. It’s not
at all dusty on account of the ice protruding though the thin soil, but this
soon begins to melt as the sun strengthens leaving the ground damp underfoot.
With Kibo now filling the sky in front of us, its Penck Glacier gleaming white,
we make our way steadily eastwards. We pass many other trekking groups,
including the portly German, sweating heavily and struggling upwards like a wind broken horse, and people who have stopped to attend to blistered feet or who are feeling nauseous. Higher up, the trail passes </span>contorted lava
outcrops and strange wind sculpted basalt boulders, where only the hardiest
plants – wiry grasses, lichens and helichrysums - seem able to cling to life.<br />
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As we pass
the junction with the <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Lemosho
Route</st1:address></st1:street>, the cloud begins to boil up from the plains
below, obscuring views of a low range of hills and rocky outcrops. Not much
further on, the trail splits in two and we join the South Circuit Path. Through
the mist blowing across a broad, sloping plateau of dull grey and brown lava
slabs strewn with boulders and ragged yellow grass, I finally see Lava Tower.
The porters (and struggling trekkers) take a more direct route to Barranco Huts
here, omitting Lava Tower, but this is now seen as essential in following the
mantra ‘climb high and sleep low’ in order to boost your chances of summiting. The
air feels very chilly, my hands are numb, and we stop to wrap up in warm layers
before heading on, our pace now considerably slower as the altitude kicks in. ‘Pole,
pole’ (‘slowly, slowly’), says Hussein in Swahili with a reassuring smile, as
the distinctive tower shaped rock standing proud of the surrounding landscape
inches ever closer.<br />
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On arrival
at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Lava</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place>, we find a sheltered spot to eat
our packed lunches and enjoy a grand view of the Western Breach, a distinctive gap
formed by an ancient lava flow on the western outer rim of Kibo, which is drifting
in and out of the cloud. Here we encounter more white-naped ravens, who are
loitering about on the nearby rocks, waiting for a chance to swoop on a stray
snack. But it is the lightening fast four-striped grass mice who steal the show.
They put on quite a performance for us as they attempt to raid our lunchboxes!!
Our appetites are unaffected by the altitude and we consume our lunch with
gusto. Just as we are donning our rucksacks ready for the off, I see El Cid and
his group arrive. He looks wan faced and slumps heavily on to a nearby rock. He
doesn’t have anything to say for himself today; the altitude fortunately seems
to have silenced his tongue!<br />
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The trail
to Barranco drops down steeply between enormous pillars of shattered basalt to
a small stream which we cross, only to rise again before undulating gently
across a barren landscape of rock and gravel. It then plunges down steeply
towards a gaping valley on the southern face of Kibo where the campsite, still
hidden from view, is sited about a 10 minute walk from the South Circuit Path.
I begin to feel a bit tired as we trudge downwards towards Barranco and Martin
is walking in just his base layer, after feeling that he was overheating. As we
approach the camp, the landscape is enlivened by pretty glacier fed streams,
some cascading down in small waterfalls, numerous two metre high lobelia and a stand of
candelabra-branched groundsel trees (<i>Dendrosenecio kilimanjari</i>), many almost
ten metres tall, which form an impressive avenue of sorts into the camp.
Silhouetted against the glassy luminescence of sunlight through mist, they
appear vaguely humanoid, ghostly sentinels spreading their arms wide as if to
embrace weary trekkers.<br />
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After
signing in at the camp office, we are glad to crawl into our sleeping bags for
a nap before dinner. Martin complains of a slight headache which is apparently
quite normal on this leg of the trek. He drinks plenty of water and takes a
couple of Ibuprofen and by dinner time he’s feeling fine again. A rather grand
sounding ‘Swahili carrot soup’ is served with gusto by our waiter followed by a
delicious main course of ground beef in tomato sauce with pasta and vegetables.
We’d actually only gained 147 metres since leaving Shira Camp and the day has
been a long and tough one. Feeling pretty tired, and eschewing yet more
magnificent views of the night sky, we turn in early.</div>
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<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="color: #990000;">Day Four: Karanga via the ‘Breakfast Wall’</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE">We are
woken from our slumbers by the noise of other groups nearby and I can clearly
hear the booming voice of Rasta Man above everyone else. It’s another bright,
sunny morning, but churning columns of cloud are already beginning to boil
about Kibo’s summit which suggests that most of today will be spent walking
in mist. The trail to Karanga Hut, a distance of just over 5 kilometres with an
ascent of about 300 metres, starts with a near vertical scramble up the famous
Great Barranco Wall, jokingly referred to as the ‘Breakfast Wall’. Many of our
fellow trekkers are beginning to leave camp as we saunter into the mess tent
for our breakfast. I can’t say I’m sorry to see the back of El Cid and I
certainly wouldn’t want to be climbing the Barranco Wall directly below him with his backfiring habits!! He and the other groups are making an early start as they
have a long day’s trekking up to Barafu Hut; they are climbing the mountain in
a day less than us. Reduced to mere dots, we follow their progress as they and
their porters move slowly up the switchback pathway of the cliff face which is
still largely in shadow. I swear I can see Rasta Man in his bright pink
leggings! Although not technically difficult and with little real exposure, the
‘Breakfast Wall’ is hands on and strenuous due to the altitude and has the
potential to be really tedious in the peak seasons, as people are undoubtedly forced
to queue for slow moving climbers.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span>
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Apart from
a group of four South Africans, we are now the only people left in camp. Kit
packed and ready, I visit one of the recently built long drops which has a door
and interior tiling and having just been cleaned by the camp caretaker, is thankfully
not an unpleasant ordeal. We then set off to scale the 300 metre wall which is
nowhere near as hard as it looks. Across a boggy section and over a small
stream, we stop to stow our walking poles by a block of rock as big as a house and
then begin the scramble up the groundsel dotted slopes of the zig-zag trail
that weaves its way over, around and through rock outcrops and boulders. I
really enjoy the challenge of the climb which is such a difference from the
relentless slow walking of yesterday. The mist has come down as expected, but
this results in a pleasant climbing temperature and I can imagine how
uncomfortable it might get in direct sunshine. The porters make the climbing look
so easy, and I marvel at their agility, strength and remarkable balance, as one
of our team sails by carrying our kit bag on his head. The trail rises in
stages, and it’s impossible to see the actual top of the wall until you’re
almost out of the gorge.<br />
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<span lang="EN-IE">The wall scaled,
we pause for snacks before beginning a gentle descent to the bottom of a gully
enlivened by heather bushes, the odd tree groundsel and lobelia, vibrant yellow
patches of <i>Euryops dacrydioides</i> and pale green African wormwood. The trail climbs
in a south easterly direction past an old
porter’s track to Barafu, the use of which is now prohibited. It’s not hard to
see why. As Hamadi is pointing it out, a loud rumble and cloud of dust signals
a rock fall from a cliff right above this old trail. The route now undulates
through a series of small valleys before entering a barren stretch of alpine
desert, where only rust red lichen encrusts the lava boulders and straggly
grasses sprout from the dusty ground.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span>
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The weather
suddenly takes a turn for the worse and it begins to drizzle. Despite being the
season of the ‘short rains’, we have not had any up until now, but we are
prepared and stop to don our waterproof ponchos. We won't win any fashion prizes for wearing these! They fit over our backpacks
and make us look like a pair of hunchbacks! The light rain driven by a blustery
wind is a hindrance, repeatedly clouding our glasses as we cross this exposed
section, before we approach the steep descent to the lushly vegetated <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Karanga</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place> which offers some shelter. Hamadi
takes us on the steeper of two trails which is rough and muddy in places and traverses
exposed rock which is slippery from the rain. I am concentrating hard on moving
safely downward, but in spite of this I suddenly lose my footing on some loose
rock and begin to slide sideways, overbalancing and gathering speed as I go. An
inevitable bad fall is broken only by Martin whom I gratefully career into. My
impromptu hero instantly lets himself down by claiming he feels as
if he has just been hit by a charging rhino, a comment that Hamadi and Hussein find
hilarious!! Shaken, I continue and am greatly relieved when we arrive unscathed
at the valley floor.<br />
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A stream
fed by glacial melt water runs through the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Karanga</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
the last source of water before the summit. Teams of porters are busy
collecting and carrying heavy canisters of water on their heads up to the camp
which is sited on a windswept rocky slope below Kibo’s southern flank. A short,
steep climb below a semicircular overhanging rock formation which Martin
identifies as a windblown conglomerate, brings us to Karanga Hut. I smile as I
read the words ‘Zombie Land’ scrawled on the rock face near the camp which lies
at an altitude of 4,034 metres, over four kilometres above sea level.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">The trekkers
who left Barranco early and had stopped here for lunch have already departed
for Barafu Hut, leaving just a handful of porters washing up and packing away the lunch utensils. One by
one they leave and the camp falls pleasantly quiet. Apart from the four South
Africans, we are the only other trekking group at Karanga. Popcorn and ginger
tea are brought to us to snack on before lunch and we have the rest of the
afternoon to relax, read and snooze. By sundown, the cloud has vanished and we
can see the immense rocky hulk of Kibo rising above the camp, eternal snow
and glaciers smudging its southern face. Dinner is once again a true feast comprised
of pumpkin soup, followed by fried chicken, salad and chips. The importance of
a hot and hearty meal cannot be underestimated, not only for its nutritional
and calorific value, but also for its morale boosting qualities. I especially
love Salimo’s soups and really look forward to these each evening.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span>
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Although I
have read a description of Karanga as ramshackle and resembling a refuge camp,
I cannot say I share this opinion. I relish the remote solitude of this place,
the quietness, the exhilarating feeling you get when you stare up into clear Equatorial
night skies. A kaleidoscopic display of stars illuminating the Kersten and
Decken glaciers tumbling down from Kibo, the colourful glowing canvas domes - tents of our fellow campers - and the lights of Moshi shimmering on the savannah far
below, are indelibly seared into my memory.<br />
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<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="color: #990000;">Day Five: Barafu or Bust!</span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Hot mugs of
ginger tea arrive. The sun has already risen and peering through our tent flaps,
I see it’s another glorious morning. Today involves the push up to Barafu Hut
sited at 4,662 metres, a distance of less than 3.5 kilometres, the final
staging post for the summit assault. I spy Hamadi lower down in the camp,
standing astride a large boulder. No doubt he’s trying to get a mobile phone
signal. I’ve never seen anyone as attached to a cell phone as him. He would put
any European teenager to shame! I make my way downhill to a wooden long drop,
bracing myself for the worst. For minutes I struggle to open what appears to be the door,
only to discover as I walk round the back that it had no far wall!! Three
sided, it was open to the wind and anyone using it during peak season would be
visible to all those people who had pitched their tents below it!! At least
this loo with a view didn’t smell too bad!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span>
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After the
usual extensive breakfast fare, we break camp, our packing regimen by now
perfected to a tee, and begin the relentlessly steep upward slog in a north
easterly direction towards Barafu. We soon hit a plateau of sorts, the trail
marked by a series of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">cairns</st1:place></st1:city>
which are useful in the mist that has predictably descended and now billows
across this blighted place. I spy only a few patches of bright yellow everlastings and some
desiccated lichens clinging stubbornly to basalt boulders as we descend into a wide,
barren alpine desert valley reminiscent of the Martian landscape. Bathed by strong
radiation during the day and subject to excruciatingly cold temperatures at night,
virtually nothing can grow here. A short scramble up a cliff face and a further
steep pull which really saps my energy, brings us to Barafu camp which means ‘ice’ in Swahili, due to its
proximity to the Rebmann Glacier, now riding the <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">north west</st1:place></st1:state> horizon. It’s sleeting slightly as we walk into camp and sign in at the office. Sited
on a desolate spine of rock crowded with clusters of tents, Barafu is a busy, noisy, uncomfortable
camp, where people are too nervous or dog-tired to really relax or enjoy themselves. Doing
the trek over seven days means we have arrived here well before midday which
gives us the opportunity to have two big meals and a good sleep before the
summit assault.<br />
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Porters serving the groups that had made their summit attempt a day ahead of us are loudly packing away their remaining gear, and in the distance I catch sight of Rasta Man heading off down the mountain. I wonder how his group fared? As we
emerge from the mess tent after a lunch of vegetable soup, fruit, beef stew and rice, it is snowing lightly.
The cold is intense, the wind penetrating. We don our Rab down jackets to avail
of the long drops which, despite the altitude and deep cold, are still
gutwrenchingly smelly. Back in our tent the conversation between us is minimal.
Lost in our individual thoughts we prepare ourselves mentally for the summit attempt.
I listen to the soothing music of Philip Glass, Martin reads a book. It’s
hopeless trying to sleep as the camp is simply too noisy with people coming and
going and porters shouting at what seems like the top of their voices. After
a dinner of sweet potato soup, followed by copious pasta in a
rich vegetable sauce which fills us with the carbs needed for the summit assault, we try to grab some sleep.<br />
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<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="color: #990000;">Day Six: To the Roof of <st1:place w:st="on">Africa</st1:place>!</span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">I sleep
surprisingly well and Martin has to shake me awake around 11.00 pm after one of
the porters rouses us. Adrenalin flowing, I instantly dress in my summit gear: a pair of thick woollen hiking socks and a pair of liners; merino long johns; mountaineering trousers; long sleeved
winter merino base layer; a light weight woollen mid layer; Rab generator smock and GoreTex jacket. We make our
way to the mess tent where ginger tea and biscuits await us. Here we sort out
the remainder of the kit we will carry about our person and in our rucksacks:
Rab down jackets; head torches; down mittens and woollen liners; balaclavas; bandanas;
polar fleece hats; sunglasses; sunscreen; lip balm; first aid kit; a camera; spare
batteries; some high energy snacks; a flask of hot ginger tea and the nalgene bottle of hot water which
had been warming my sleeping bag for the past few hours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Hamadi,
Hussein and another assistant guide enter the tent as we are silently sipping
our ginger tea. I have little appetite for the sweet coconut biscuits. Filled with apprehension, I'm trying to banish all negative thoughts from my mind. I eye these three highly experienced men with hundreds of
successful summits between them. We have entrusted them to ensure that we reach
the highest point of <st1:place w:st="on">Africa</st1:place> safely and come back down alive. Hamadi
runs a final check list with us and after giving us reassurances about his confidence
in our climbing ability and acclimatisation, we exit the tent around midnight.
The ground is icy and white with sleet as we begin our climb of almost five kilometres
with an ascent of 1,233 metres to the roof of <st1:place w:st="on">Africa</st1:place>.
Lurid sheets of lightening perpetually illuminate the eastern horizon less than
an hour into the climb, providing a thrilling light show, but I am mightily
relieved to learn that the storm is moving away from, not toward us. There are only a few other people making a summit attempt and we can see their head torches bobbing about in the blackness below. As we gain
height, the cold becomes intense. Clouds of our own breath sparkling with icy
particles are momentarily trapped in the beams cast by our head torches. Snow begins to fall
steadily and time becomes inconsequential as we concentrate on merely putting
one foot in front of the other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Our guides
sing quietly to us as we struggle upwards against the altitude. Martin begins
to feel it first. Only a couple of hours into the climb he slows down and
begins to feel sleepy and nauseous, pausing regularly to lean on his walking
poles. I am alarmed when he begins to retch violently and as these episodes
become more regular I fear his summit attempt is drawing to a premature close. We
stop so he can lie down in the shelter of a small cave to rest for a while. The
decision to quit must be his and if he decides to retreat, I resolve to return
to Barafu with him. However, he hasn’t actually vomited and following this
break, he informs us that he is OK to continue. After Hamadi gives him a
careful check over, the assistant guide takes his rucksack and with him keeping a reassuring
hand on Martin's back, we soldier on. Stopping has chilled me to the very marrow. My
hands are numb and my fingers literally stinging with the cold. I’m relieved to
be moving again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">By degrees,
the eastern sky begins to lighten, the only sound, my laboured breathing and
the crunch and squeak of fresh snow beneath my boots. In fact, the snow turns
out to be a blessing as it’s not deep enough to slow us down, but deep enough
to carpet the nasty loose scree slopes that can test the resolve of even the
hardiest trekkers. From the steep zig-zag trail up to Stella Point, the sight
of Mawenzi Peak below, crowned with charcoal grey cloud tinted </span>vermilion by the golden orb of the sun rising over Africa which also turns the snow beneath our
feet rose pink, is a sight I will never ever forget.<br />
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<span lang="EN-IE">Until now, I had experienced no ill effects of altitude whatsoever. But then
suddenly and unexpectedly, as if someone had literally tripped a switch, all my
energy drains away. The feeling isn’t unpleasant, it’s actually mildly euphoric
and I feel as if I’m walking above the ground not on it. The remainder of the climb
proceeds in this semi-dreamlike state. </span>Seeing that
I have slowed down, Hussein relieves me of my rucksack not far below Stella
Point, the wooden signpost for which is a very welcome sight indeed. My eyes fill with tears as it sinks in that we have made it to the crater rim together. I embrace Martin, proud and in awe of his mental stamina, the grit and resolve he has mustered to reach this point. The cloud
has now cleared giving us wall to wall azure blue sky and we spy the small Ratzel
Glacier etched in brilliant detail in the morning sunlight to the far right of
the Rebmann Glacier which has been a constant companion on our ascent. Far below, the African savannah is spread out like a never ending map in all directions. I shall carry the memory of this moment to the ghats. </div>
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After a cup of energising hot ginger tea and the ubiquitous group photos and hugs of congratulation, we set off for <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Uhuru</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Peak</st1:placetype></st1:place> which is still about an hour away. This involves a gradual ascent of 170 metres around the crater rim, offering incredible views of the inner cone and the Rebmann Glacier sloping down the mountain like giant layers of meringue. Martin has now rallied considerably and is making steady progress ahead of me. Although I am really enjoying the climb, I have to stop every few hundred metres as I simply run out of steam. I deeply appreciate the presence of Hussein, his simple acts of kindness and the easy companionship that has arisen between two people whom fate has thrown together. When I falter, I feel his hand on my back to steady me, when I flag, he offers comforting words of reassurance.<br />
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Travelling
‘pole, pole’ so as not to get out of breath, we inch our way towards <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Uhuru</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Peak</st1:placetype></st1:place>
which eventually floats into view, marked by a couple of distinctive signs. Around eight hours after we had set off, we are standing on the roof of Africa. Together. We share a few tears when the realisation sinks in that we are almost six kilometres above sea level; below us the mighty African continent spreads out for as far as the eye can see. As it's not peak season, we have the summit entirely to ourselves as we leisurely capture the moment
on camera for posterity. While the guides are busy chatting together, Martin
leads me underneath one of the signs and drops to one knee. I look at him
through bleary eyes as he asks me to marry him. This is the highest point in
the world we have reached so far together and what better place and moment to
pop the question? I don’t imagine anyone could possibly be happier than me at this
moment in time. We embrace as I accept his proposal and our guides
cheer when they learn what has just transpired.<br />
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<span lang="EN-IE">After the
cheering subsides, Hamadi signals it’s time to leave, conscious of the fact
that we are both affected to varying degrees by the altitude. We beat a hasty
retreat from the summit, arriving at Stella Point, now shrouded in cloud, very
quickly. Just past a large boulder we take a slightly different path back to
Barafu, opting for a faster route involving the descent of a narrow valley via hair-raisingly
steep snow-covered scree slopes. There is a virtual white-out as heavy snow falls
on our descent but we feel our strength rapidly returning the lower we go. At </span>Barafu we are allowed a one hour nap before lunch and then have to pack up our kit, a tedious task when you're physically and mentally drained. We then immediately break camp to head down through the arid alpine desert via the Mweka route to High Camp, a quiet
and scenic spot set amid thickets of giant moorland heather. The fragrant smell of wood smoke
from the caretaker’s hut guides us into the camp, established in 1999 when the
mountain literally swarmed with thousands of climbers hoping to welcome in the
new millennium from the summit. Indeed, many groups now prefer it to the lower camp at Mweka
which is crowded, noisy and prone to flooding during heavy rains. The clean,
modern long drops here are certainly 5* rated after Barafu!<br />
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I sit
across the dinner table from Martin in our candlelit mess tent still in a
dreamlike state, not from the altitude, but from exhaustion following the
exertion of the day’s incredible events. We don’t say much to each other, but
just grin knowingly and repeatedly over a filling meal of leek and potato soup,
and spaghetti with a spicy sauce. Once inside my down sleeping bag, I am too
tired to rerun the day’s events in my mind and am asleep almost as soon as my
head hits the pillow.</div>
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<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="color: #990000;">Day Seven: Descent to Mweka Gate</span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">A dull,
overcast day greets us as we emerge from our tent for breakfast. It has rained
heavily in the night, although I was too comatose with fatigue to hear it. There
is a real sense of purpose at this camp; the porters seem keen to get the cook and
mess tents packed away quickly today. A descent of around 2,150 metres over 11
kilometres from here to Mweka Gate through the heath and cloud forest awaits us
and we too are keen to hit the trail in order to get back to our hotel in Moshi
where a hot shower and cold beers await!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">From High Camp,
the trail weaves its way down over the crest of a lava ridge which offers fine
views of the heavily forested southern slopes of the mountain. I'm really enjoying this walk, but the ground is
very rough underfoot in places and I know it’s wise to be careful and not to be too blasé
about where to plant my feet. Most accidents happen </span>on descent to tired climbers with weary limbs.
Indeed, we pass two strong young men carrying stretchers uphill, a thankless
but necessary task. I wonder how the two casualties that recently occupied
those stretchers had fared? Giant heather draped with lichen is now interspersed with protea, a bush with pretty vanilla-coloured blossoms whose
ancestors grew in Gondwanaland 300 million years ago. In the undergrowth, we spot
vibrant patches of purple wild thyme and pale pink geraniums. A slight rise is
encountered as we approach Mweka Huts (3,106 metres), for now eerily deserted
until the next wave of climbers descend on it later today.<br />
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Mweka Huts,
like Machame Huts, is situated at the juncture between moorland heath and cloud
forest, and before long we are walking along a shady but very slippery pathway beneath
a dense forest canopy. The gradual although relentless descent on tired limbs is
not to be underestimated! However, the jungle flora provides a magnificent distraction: impatiens, begonia, gladiolus and wild blackberry blossom pepper
the undergrowth, while many of the trees, trunks coated in thick moss and
bristling with parasitic ferns, are enormous. Some actually grow in the centre
of the pathway. There are no other groups ahead of us on the trail and our quietness is rewarded by sightings of black and white colobus
monkeys in the tree canopy, while on the track ahead we spot a family of blue
monkeys. Hamadi also alerts us to the presence of a dik-dik, a small, shy antelope
which is barely visible in the jungle undergrowth.<br />
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<span lang="EN-IE">Finally, Mweka
Gate appears in the </span>distance where our minibus is waiting for us. I am overjoyed that my feet have not played me up for even a nanosecond over the past week. I've suffered not one blister or even a pressure point and my Zamberlan boots have passed another rigorous test with flying colours! Our concerns about the weather proved to be unfounded and opting to do the trek outside of the peak seasons meant we were able to enjoy true moments of peace and solitude which would be far more difficult when the trails and camp sites are crowded, busy and noisy.<br />
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We pause for a photograph at a wooden congratulation sign and then head to the office to officially sign out of the park. We note from the register that not all of the trekkers who had gone for the summit the day before us had made it. The portly German managed to reach Barafu, something of a miracle in itself, several others were satisfied attaining Stella Point. El Cid was one of those who did stand on the roof of Africa, which will undoubtedly give him bragging rights for all eternity! Hussein confirmed to the park ranger that we
had successfully reached Uhuru Peak in order for us to receive certificates
stating so. Formalities over, I head to the bathroom. A clean, sit down flush toilet is utter bliss after squatting for a week over those stomach churning long drops! Looking in the mirror above the basin as I wash my filthy hands, I barely recognise myself. Face sunburnt and slightly swollen, dirty hair a mass of dreadlocks to rival those of Rasta Man, I look like I've been to hell and back!!<br />
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An hour later and we're back at our hotel in Moshi. Here we take that much dreamed about hot shower and later celebrate our successful climb over numerous drinks with our guides, porters and cook from <i>Kilismile Trails and Safaris</i>. They are presented with their well earned tips, and we receive our precious gold certificates to take home along with many priceless memories of our climb to the roof of <st1:place w:st="on">Africa</st1:place>. </div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">As I gaze
down proudly at my certificate, I still cannot believe that I have </span>scaled the world’s largest free standing mountain to stand astride the highest spot in <st1:place w:st="on">Africa</st1:place>. To climb Kilimanjaro is a journey of both mind and body, a voyage of
extremes and superlatives where you learn to push yourself to new limits. You discover as much about yourself as you do about others. But if I’d learnt anything surmounting this mighty mountain, where every breath in the rarefied atmosphere was hard won indeed, it was this: life is not measured by the number of
breaths we take, but by the number of moments that take our breath away. </div>
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Watch our Kilimanjaro climb on You Tube:</div>
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=it4fCXz2oJE</div>
Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-5790305252986976302014-12-10T06:33:00.004-08:002015-06-19T11:58:37.680-07:00Two Tickets to Ride! A Journey Through Time on the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway, India<div class="MsoNormal">
Our jeep
judders to a halt to avoid colliding with an old man with a sack slung across
his back who has been jostled off the nearby pavement. It’s teeming with rain
and he struggles to hold his umbrella aloft in the crush of shoppers. The jeep
lurches forward once more in a stream of traffic weaving its way through the
narrow, busy streets of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:place></st1:city>’s
Chowrasta bazaar with its hole in the wall shops. Undeterred by the monsoon
rains, the colourful market is absolutely thronged with people on the eye out
for a bargain. The Hindu festival of Dussehra is just around the corner and new
clothes are an essential part of the celebrations.</div>
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Through the
constant downpour I spot several Victorian buildings cheek by jowl with the
untidy concrete sprawl of urban <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
Darjeeling, once a mere village in the eastern foothills of the Himalaya, grew
in importance during the mid-nineteenth century after the British established a
hill station here to escape the stifling heat of the Ganges plains. It soon
became the de facto summer capital of British India when the Raj was governed
from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Calcutta</st1:place></st1:city>. First
leased from the Chogyal of Sikkim, it was annexed by the British in 1849 who
discovered that the climate was perfect for growing tea and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:city></st1:place> became synonymous with this
beverage. Indeed the hillsides and valleys surrounding <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:place></st1:city> are still covered with deep green tea
plantations. We are actually staying at a small eco-farm below <st1:city w:st="on">Darjeeling </st1:city>8 km down a spine
jerking, teeth chattering unsealed road deep in a valley oozing with tropical
vegetation.
Tathagata Farm grows and produces its own tea, a delightful amber liquor with a
smoky taste. </div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Our driver
takes us along <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Mall Road</st1:address></st1:street>
towards Observatory Hill. We stop briefly to view the Gothic St Andrew’s
Church, an Anglican place of worship built in 1843 and rebuilt 30 years later, but now somewhat faded in
its majesty, yellow walls streaked with green slime contrasting with its rust
red galvanised roof. Close by are the Windermere and Elgin Hotels, elegant stone
buildings which conjure up the opulence of the Raj. Nearby is the Darjeeling
Gymkhana Club, established in 1909 and we also catch a glimpse of the Darjeeling
Municipality Building with its famous Clock Tower, the four faces of which stare
timelessly out over the myriad rooftops of the ‘Queen of the Hills’ which
offers majestic views of snow capped Kanchenjunga, which is at the moment
totally obscured in monsoon cloud.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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But it is
another facet of Victorian heritage that we are heading towards, one which for
me truly evokes the grandeur of <st1:place w:st="on">British India</st1:place>:
the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway. Narrow gauge (2 ft) and built to transport agricultural
produce, this feat of Victorian engineering inscribed on UNESCO’s World
Heritage List in 1999, was constructed between 1879 and 1881 to connect Siliguri,
at the base of the Himalaya to Darjeeling, a journey of around 78 kilometres formerly
made by carriage along the now horrendously congested and dangerous Hill Cart
Road. Indeed, parts of it are ingeniously built into the side of this road,
sometimes crossing it, running above precipitous drops and making numerous
loops and Z-reverses to gain height. Remarkably, nearly a third of the original
‘B’ Class locomotives, the majority of which were designed and built in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Glasgow</st1:place></st1:city> by the North
British Locomotive Company between 1889 and 1925, are still in use or under
repair.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Due to
landslides and catastrophic flooding events, a section of the track is damaged
just before Kurseong and there is currently no service from New Jalpaiguri up
to this point. Kurseong to <st1:city w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:city> and the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:city></st1:place> to Ghum
sections are operated by steam with other sections run on diesel. We wanted to
travel on a steam train and, due to time constraints, chose the <st1:city w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:city> to Ghum option dubbed ‘The Joy Ride’, booking
our tickets in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Ireland</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
We now present the computer print-outs at the archaic wooden shuttered kiosk on
the platform of Darjeeling Station to confirm our journey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Having
collected our tickets for the 4 pm train, there is almost half an hour to go
before its departure, so we wander up the platform past a fast food booth with
a sign advertising <i>chai</i> for 10 rupees
where women are busy making <i>puris</i>, crossing
the road to view the engineering sheds where several of the blue engines are
undergoing maintenance. No. 802 <i>Victor </i>and
No. 804, <i>Queen of the Hills </i>built in
1927 and 1928 respectively and an earlier engine No. 788 <i>Tusker</i> built in 1913, are lined up in the sidings, some of them
stripped right down. There is no one at work and we wander along the shed pungent
with the smell of engine oil and grease, to a group of dogs sleeping in the
dirt below <i>Tusker</i>, seemingly
oblivious to our presence.</div>
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Suddenly
the air is pierced by a high pitched shriek which we immediately know is a
steam engine whistle, heralding the arrival of our engine into the station. We
run across the road to greet it, joining a knot of interested bystanders and
train enthusiasts, as engine No. 779 chugs majestically into the station like a
snarling beast, all steam and hisses, her name, <i>Himalayan Bird</i>, emblazoned in brass down the side of her diminutive
body. Slowing slightly as if to allow her enthralled audience to admire her,
she then picks up speed and passes beyond the station, only to reappear minutes
later, her engine facing towards Ghum. This grand old lady of 122 years then
comes to a graceful halt, gently hissing as she flaunts her beauty to the misty-eyed
admirers flocked around her, cameras snapping away.</div>
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The stoker begins
to furiously shovel coal into the small firebox which glows gratefully red and
the engine driver lovingly wipes her bright work. The smell of coal smoke,
grease and oil mingle together in a nostalgic whiff and a thrill of expectation
runs through me like an electric current. What is it about steam trains that
has the power to excite and enthral people of all ages and cultures?</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Two
carriages coupled and with an immense column of brown smoke now thundering into
an overcast <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:place></st1:city>
sky, its time to board. Chaos ensues as it's obvious there are too many people
to fit into the carriages. The conductor looks on in open mouthed bewilderment,
frozen into inaction in the melee. We push our way to our numbered seats in the First Class carriage only
to discover two young men in <i>salwar
kameez</i> occupying them who look bashfully at us as we show them our tickets.
They depart the carriage with rueful smiles. A couple of portly Americans look
decidedly uncomfortable squeezed into the very small, hard seats; indeed the
seating arrangements offer an unparalleled degree of intimacy which some
Westerners seem to find rather awkward! After some ten or so hectic minutes with
much toing and froing, shouting and jostling for seats, a whistle sounds and the
train leaves the station with a sudden jolt. A group of office workers from
Mumbai seated near us break into spontaneous song and clapping, lending the
carriage something of a festival atmosphere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Whistle
shrieking and soots flying in through the open windows, the engine puffs its way
up through the narrow streets with a rhythmic clatter amid clouds of vapour past
huge billboards advertising tea, weaving in and out of the traffic at a
leisurely 6 miles per hour. Periodically, one of the engine drivers, a high
cheek boned Nepali wearing a blue bandana, hops off the train to sprinkle some
sand on the track to aid traction. At times the train lurches by mere inches
from shop fronts, causing people to step back sharply and passengers to
withdraw their heads from the windows, for fear of decapitation! I could
literally reach through the open window to snatch fruit or clothing
from the vendors’ stalls! Laughing children run alongside the carriages, people
give chase to take photographs and traffic yields to the diminutive engine
dubbed the ‘Toy Train’, a term I dislike, as this is no plaything but a serious
piece of British engineering kept in service for over a century by Indian
ingenuity.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">The much
feted view of Kanchenjunga is lost in monsoon cloud and the
city of Darjeeling below peers though the murk like a faded watercolour as we enter
the graceful double loop at Batasia with its neat gardens and prominent
memorial to the Ghurkha soldiers of the Indian army who sacrificed themselves in battle during
the War of Independence in 1947. We stop here briefly and I am glad of my
umbrella as the monsoon downpour strengthens, sending up a strident hiss to
match the steam escaping loudly from the engine. After a few minutes we pile
back into our carriage to continue our journey uphill towards Ghum, the highest
railway station in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>
at 2,258 metres (7,407 ft).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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The train labours
up the track spewing soots in through the open windows. A Russian woman sat
nearby is clearly not amused as her white coat gets peppered in smuts and slams
her window shut! The cold hits us like a sledgehammer as we disembark at Ghum
station, built in 1881 which retains a Victorian atmosphere with its ornate
wooden ticket counter and waiting room. A man with a rush broom almost as big
as him, is meticulously sweeping the platform and the <i>chai</i> stall is doing brisk business in the cold, damp weather. There
is a plaque denoting the World Heritage Site status of the railway at the end of the platform near a red post box and a small museum opposite the station dedicated to the railway, but this appears
closed. We are, however, more interested in viewing Her Ladyship who is
being prepared for the journey back down to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:place></st1:city>.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Red hot
balls of cinders are being raked out of her firebox, spilling onto the track
and platform where they smoke and flame. The smell transports me back to my
childhood reminding me of the Whitsun fair at Redruth when traction engines
provided power for some of the rides. I’m especially taken by the brass eagle
motif attached to her piston casing, which I assume is meant to be <i>the</i> Himalayan Bird. Uncoupled from her
carriages, <i>Himalayan Bird</i> then exits
the station to return minutes later, funnel facing downhill to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:place></st1:city> where, steam up and carriages
re-coupled, she waits, inviting her passengers to embark. A loud throaty
whistle signals the arrival of a diesel engine pulling three carriages crammed
full of people from Kurseong. It clatters through the station without stopping,
sounding its whistle like a brash American freight train. It has
more speed, but none of the grace or charm of <i>Himalayan Bird</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Back aboard,
we settle into our seats for the downhill trip to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:place></st1:city>. Dusk is falling early due to the
rain and car headlights cast pools of light onto the wet roads. The lights come
on in the carriage casting a feeble amber glow over its animated occupants. The
train breezes by the squares of brightly lit shops, vendors illuminated in
lurid detail, contents flowing out onto the narrow pavement mere inches from
the train track. Neatly stacked pyramids of fruit and vegetables; busy fast
food stalls with lamps and candles flaring; brass pots and pans gleaming in the headlights of passing cars; damp clothes hanging like limp bats from bamboo railings. No
one seems perturbed by the passage of the train, after all, she’s a noisy
family member and clearly enjoys being centre stage, shrieking her way loudly through
the bustling streets.</div>
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Just before
6 pm <i>Himalayan Bird</i> coasts into
Darjeeling Station amid much steam and piercing whistles, our journey at an
end. Although I disembark with a numb bottom from the hard seat, my hair full
of cinders and my cream top flecked with soots, it has been a real pleasure to take
a two hour journey back in time on one of the world’s most famous narrow gauge railways. The
haunting shriek of the whistle echoing round the mist laden hillsides and the
smell of the coal smoke and engine oil will linger long in my memory, as will
the incredible snapshot the view from the passing train gave of everyday life in this
mountainous and historic region of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<br />
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Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-64122884953955794082014-10-26T13:00:00.000-07:002014-10-31T13:05:43.203-07:00‘P-p-picture a penguin…’: A journey to Tierra del Fuego, Chile<h3>
<span style="color: #990000;">A childhood dream</span></h3>
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Throughout a
spell in my childhood they appeared on the TV almost nightly, advertising a chocolate
covered biscuit which we were exhorted to ‘p-p-pick up’ when we were a bit ‘p-p-peckish’:
the king penguin (<i>Aptenodytes patagonicus</i>).
I, like millions of other British kids, fell in love with the cute, comical-looking
birds waddling about as if bedecked in morning suits. I never imagined that I
would ever see them in the wild, as they are endemic to the southern hemisphere
and inhabit far away islands at the other end of the world deep in the South
Atlantic: the Falklands and South Georgia, and the even more remote and
inhospitable Antarctica. Until fairly recently.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Last November
I found myself in <st1:city w:st="on">Punta Arenas</st1:city>, Chilean
Patagonia, and learned that a colony had established itself on the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">island</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Tierra del Fuego</st1:placename></st1:place>, at a sheep ranch in Bahia
Inútil. To my surprise, I discovered that since 2011 tourists had been
permitted to visit this colony which now lay but half a day's journey from me.
Availing of the chance of a lifetime, Martin and I booked a mini bus trip there
with a local tour company costing around $US 80 each, the price of which
included a visit to the penguin colony, two ferry tickets, entry to a museum
and transportation to and from our hotel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">On a chilly
late November morning, just after dawn, we set off along with several other
tourists in a battered old mini bus with dodgy rear suspension, for the Tres
Puentes car ferry just outside <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Punta
Arenas</st1:place></st1:city>. The two and a half hour crossing to Bahía
Chilota around 5km from Porvenir, a small town settled by Croatians in 1883, took
us across the famous Strait of Magellan which joins the Pacific and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Atlantic</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Oceans</st1:placetype></st1:place>. The crossing was comfortable due
to the lack of wind and swell on this notoriously fickle stretch of water,
although the air temperature was so low it was too cold to remain on deck for
any length of time. The most memorable aspect of the voyage was the incredible
cloud formations: a line of lurid backlit sky on the horizon, above which
gunmetal grey clouds swirled in eerie nodules that reminded me of the skies in Spielberg’s
<i>Close Encounters of the Third Kind</i>.</span><br />
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Bahía
Chilota sits astride a desolate stretch of flat land, one of the more
conspicuous buildings visible as you pass through the narrow entrance into the
harbour being a bright yellow church, which added a welcome splash of colour on
an erstwhile drab day. We disembarked as foot passengers, passing a sign
warning of the dangers of toxic red algae and not to pick the shellfish along
the coast, before being reunited with our minibus. We then drove the short
distance to the bleak, frontier town of <st1:city w:st="on">Porvenir</st1:city>
with its depressing hotchpotch of shabby coloured buildings, to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Fernando</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Cordero</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Rusque</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Municipal</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
denoted by its landmark circular astronomical observation tower outside.<br />
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<h3>
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="color: #990000;">The sad fate of the Fuegians</span></span></h3>
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The museum
has an eclectic mix of exhibits related to life in the region. Considerable attention
is devoted to indigenous flora and fauna, including the aboriginal inhabitants
of <st1:place w:st="on">Tierra del Fuego</st1:place>, which make for
uncomfortable viewing if you are European. The native Fuegians belonged to
several tribes including the Ona (Selk’nam), Haush (Manek’enk), Yaghan (Yámana)
and Alacaluf (Kawésqar). The arrival of Europeans in the mid-nineteenth century
saw the introduction of devastating
diseases such as measles and smallpox to which the Fuegians had no immunity. Land
grabs for ranching and gold mining, coupled with a deliberate policy of
extermination of the indigenous peoples by settlers, resulted in the decimation
of the Fuegians’ hunting grounds, cultures and languages, and their populations
plummeted from several thousand in the nineteenth century to mere hundreds in
the twentieth. Their sad fate seemed to be encapsulated in the mummified
remains of a female called ‘Kela’ who died about 1424 in her early 30s. Her
body was found in a cave on Tres Mogotes, a small island off <st1:place w:st="on">Tierra
del Fuego</st1:place> in 1974, but it is not known what culture she belonged
to. Tourists leering at her grisly remains in a glass case filled me with
sadness and shame. It seemed so utterly improper.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Leaving the
museum we were taken to a site just above the coastline where a viciously cold
onshore wind blew across the landscape. It felt like a hole was being ripped in
the very fabric of history itself, for here stood a line of wooden statues of
men, women and children wrapped in animal skin cloaks and bearing spears, staring through
sightless eyes into the far distance, walking inexorably to their ultimate
fate. They represent the Selk’nam nation, whose people were hunted like animals
to virtual extinction by European settlers. It wasn’t just the cold wind that
made me shiver at the sight of these carvings. They reminded me greatly of the statues
erected at the Custom House Quay in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Dublin</st1:place></st1:city>’s
Docklands in memory of another group of history’s hapless victims: the Irish
who perished in their hundreds of thousands during the 1840s famine. Little remains of
the Selk’nam nation today: some dusty artefacts in the nearby museum, this
poignant line of statues and a sun-faded wooden plaque with peeling varnish,
mere curiosities for passing tourists…</span><br />
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Plenty of
food for thought on the long journey (almost 130 km) along bumpy gravel tracks through
the bleak, flat, wind blasted landscape that comprises the northern part of the
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">island</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Tierra del Fuego</st1:placename></st1:place>, ‘The Land of Fire’. The
name derives from the Portuguese explorer, Ferdinand Magellan, the first
European to visit this region in 1520, who, from sea, beheld the impressive sight
of many fires lit by the Yaghan nation. The southern part of the island is mountainous
and densely forested, where firewood would have been aplenty, but the penguin
colony is sited on a treeless stretch of land on a sheep ranch at Bahia Inútil
(Usless Bay), a name supposedly coined by nineteenth century British
geographers because it was not suitable as a port. Life here is undoubtedly
hard and marginal, illustrated by the abandoned remains of several old
homesteads and a windswept crumbling cemetery we saw on the way. I spotted a
few herds of guanacos (Patagonian llamas) and some flamingos on a brackish lake
in the distance, but most of the fauna consisted solely of woolly Corriedale
sheep.</div>
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<h3>
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="color: #990000;">P-p-picture a penguin!</span></span></h3>
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The lack of
native fauna makes the sight of the king penguins all the more impressive. El
Parque Pingüino Rey is a 125-acre plot on the 25,000-acre Estancia San Clemente,
owned by Alejandro Fernández Vogelhummer and his family. We arrived there to be
greeted by a tame grey fox belonging to the family which accompanied us towards
the somewhat incongruous sight of a lime green geodesic tent sheltered from the
wind by some white plastic sheeting. Here we signed the visitors’ book and were
told a little about the penguin colony, the only continental breeding site in the
<st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Americas and the most accessible king penguin colony in the world.</st1:place></st1:country-region><br />
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The king
penguin is second only in size to the Emperor penguin which can be found in Antarctica. Historically, king
penguins have been present along various parts of the Austral coast; archaeological
sites dating back 6,000 years reveal the presence of their bones. But these penguin
colonies were consigned to the pages of history, scared away no doubt by
European settler activities, until a number of the birds decided to reclaim
their old turf around a decade ago, clustering at the mouth of the Marazzi
River at Bahia Inútil. Their numbers increased year on year; courtship
behaviour was observed and the birds finally started to breed here in 2012. When
we visited, there were about 100 penguins present and the numbers were expected
to grow.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">The king
penguin breeding cycle begins in November at the start of the southern hemisphere
summer, when the female king penguin lays her first egg. The chick takes 55
days to hatch, then stays with its parents for 11 months. Once the chick is
independent, the female must complete her moult before laying again, this time
in late autumn. As a result, the king penguin’s breeding cycle takes 18 months
and moves in and out of phase with the calendar year. Male and female king
penguins look identical and they share the task of incubating a single egg.
Instead of building a nest, they cradle the egg on their broad webbed feet,
where it is kept warm in a brood pouch. The bodies of king penguins are
protected from the cold by short, densely-packed feathers and a thick layer of
blubber. They feed mainly on fish and squid found in the cold waters of the <st1:place w:st="on">Southern Atlantic</st1:place>. At sea they are predated by seals; on
land skuas snatch eggs and chicks, while the mink, a carnivorous introduced
species, poses a significant threat to this colony. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">A small
group of us made our way towards a grassy spit between a river channel and the
seashore, beyond which lay the steel grey waters of Bahia Inútil, framed by a
line of snowy mountains on the horizon. Visitor numbers are strictly limited to
the colony and we had to keep a specified distance demarcated by a rope, so as
not to disturb them. Borne on the wind, I could hear snatches of a strange, trumpeting
sound. And suddenly, there they were! In the tussocky grass strewn with yellow
flowers on the far bank of the channel we spot dozens of them. Some stood
huddled together like statues or were busy preening themselves, occasionally
flapping their wings or bending their heads backwards on seemingly elastic
necks as they pointed their beaks heavenward to emit the unusual sound we could
hear; others looking amazingly plump were lying down oblivious to the
surrounding birds and a few adventurous ones were clambering into and out of
the water, either returning from, or going fishing, in the bay.</span><br />
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The sight
of these three feet high birds brought a broad smile to my face. They looked
vaguely humanoid with their bipedal waddle and slightly comical too, as if
decked out in fancy dress: oversized black wellie boots with webbed feet; a large,
blue-black tailcoat with a long white shirt; a conspicuous, yellow-orange necktie
and a black and deep orange face mask! Several birds appeared to be moulting
and we could see their discarded feathers caught in the grass alongside the
river bank. Moulting is a period of hunger for the penguin, as it cannot put to
sea until it has a set of fully intact and functioning feathers. We laughed as
one tobogganed down the river bank into the water with a loud splash, and
giggled at the odd sly peck and occasional ‘trumpet voluntary’ as one of the
birds returned from the sea to join in a huddle. I noticed a couple of the
birds had a bloody smudge on their pristine white feathers. Our guide, a PhD
candidate in biology who had worked at the colony studying the penguin’s
behaviour, told me that these wounds were likely to have been incurred during a seal attack.<br />
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We then
moved further towards the shore to a shingly beach strewn with brown seaweed. Here one of
the birds put on a Charlie Chaplinesque display for us as it waddled round comically
as if showing off, periodically flapping its wings and lifting its orange striped
beak skywards to trumpet between spells of intense preening. I was struck by how dapper these
birds are, quite beautiful in fact, with their blue-black, white and saffron
yellow symmetrically patterned feathers.<br />
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We were
loath to leave, but having spent well over an hour and a half there, we were beginning
to feel decidedly chilly. There followed a long journey to a ferry at Bahia
Azul for the 20 minute crossing back to the mainland. En route we passed
through Cerro Sombrero, a bleak ‘one horse’ oil town with a toblerone-shaped
church, a large building with a multi-coloured façade which looked like a
Cubist painting, and a huge statue of an oil worker in front of three enormous
glass buildings resembling huge greenhouses. Indeed, one had a tropical garden
inside.<br />
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The
crossing of the <st1:place w:st="on">Strait of Magellan</st1:place> was rougher
than the one we had taken earlier. The skies had cleared to the deepest blue and the sun was shining, yet it was bitterly cold on deck. We, however, couldn’t resist the urge to brave the chill to watch huge waves slamming into the hull of the
ferry sending clouds of spray all over the cars on the deck.<br />
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<h3>
<span style="color: #990000;">Reflections...</span></h3>
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I felt
incredibly privileged to have been able to see king penguins in the wild, something I had dreamt about ever since I was a child. And it was great to know
that these birds, which had been driven from <st1:place w:st="on">Tierra del
Fuego</st1:place> by human activity, had returned to reclaim their territory.
Moreover, this tenacious little colony is now being protected by the local
ranchers. A story with a happy ending. Unfortunately, unlike the king penguins,
the indigenous Fuegians, whose land this once was, will never return because of
the cupidity and ignorance of Europeans who drove them to extinction. A truly sad
and sorry chapter in the annals of Latin American and indeed, human history. <br />
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Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-45399574751888428762014-10-16T15:06:00.000-07:002015-01-11T05:11:01.120-08:00Tomb Raider for a Day! A Moto Trip from Siem Reap to the Beng Mealea Temple, Cambodia<h3>
<b><i><span lang="EN-IE"><span style="color: #990000;">Heaven on Earth</span></span></i></b></h3>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Angkor Wat
is a name that has summoned up adventure, excitement and mystery for me ever
since I was a small child. The largest temple complex on earth, and now a UNESCO
World Heritage Site, nothing can prepare you for its sheer scale and majesty.
You are reduced to superlatives. Built over 800 years ago to express divinity -
the setting down in stone of the divine power of the kings of <st1:place w:st="on">Angkor</st1:place>
- these enormous temples were surrounded by thriving cities built of wood and
thatch. Here was the capital of a kingdom that ruled for over 500 years, home
to over a million people, its engineering, urban planning and water management
systems equalling, if not surpassing, cities elsewhere in Asia and in Europe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">We have
been in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Siem Reap</st1:city>, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Cambodia</st1:country-region></st1:place>, for three days, exploring
the numerous temples which make up this World Heritage Site. We watched the
sunset from Phnom Bakheng turning the stonework of Angkor Wat pink and gold,
and stood spellbound awaiting the sunrise behind its five distinctive lotus bud
shaped towers, the physical embodiment of the microcosm of the Hindu universe:
the five peaks of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mount</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Meru</st1:placename></st1:place>. Charcoal grey and
silhouetted against a kaleidoscopic sky of moving cloud tinted myriad shades
of grey, purple, lilac, ruby red and apricot, all reflected in the water of the
large moat surrounding it, the complex at dawn presented a spine tingling scene.
In the daylight we wandered amid its ornately carved labyrinthine galleries
depicting the battles from the great Indian epics: the <i>Ramayana</i> and the <i>Mahabharata</i>.
Gods and demons, men and beasts, all exquisitely executed in sandstone. And the <i>apsaras</i> and <i>devatas</i>, so perfectly carved and lifelike - dancers and deities
that might just take form and walk out of the very walls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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From a <i>tuk tuk</i> we gazed in wonderment at the
great city of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Angkor Thom</st1:place></st1:city>,
its entrance bridges lined with impressive avenues of carved heads depicting
gods and <i>asuras</i> in the form of a
stylised balustrade with ornate <i>nagas</i>
(multi-headed serpents). These lead to a tower, a panoply of intricate carving
featuring elephants topped by four enormous sandstone heads facing each
cardinal direction. The narrow gateways below propel you to another world, a
microcosm of the universe, at the heart of which is the Bayon.</div>
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We wandered
in awe through this mysterious monument, its giant carved faces staring
benignly into the surrounding jungle canopy, timeless, still, with knowing
eyes and smiling mouths. We admired the history and culture of the Khmer, fashioned in exquisite detail: the great friezes of war - battles with the Cham and the
Chinese - warrior elephants and soldiers in boats and chariots; nobles in
exotic palanquins. And the prosaic, for the people who created this temple projected
their everyday lives onto stone: a timeless portrayal of rural life still seen
in the Khmer villages of today.</div>
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In the
sweltering heat we explored the dark recesses of the pyramid-like Ta Keo, and
the temple <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">mountain</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename w:st="on">Bakong</st1:placename></st1:place> with its
fabulously carved elephant statues surrounded by a moat studded with cerise pink
and white lilies. We watched as a huge gunmetal grey cloud swirled menacingly above
the pool of Srah Srang just before a monsoon deluge engulfed it, and sat
becalmed at the peaceful scene of a man fishing on the lake surrounding the
island temple of Neak Pean, as the heat of the day ebbed away and the sun slid
low in the western sky.<br />
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We wandered
speechless amid the photogenic ruins of Ta Phrom, marvelling at the stonework
smothered by gigantic silk cotton trees and strangler figs as if in a desperate
and deadly struggle with the jungle for survival. Merged with the jungle, but
not yet a part of it, this was the location for the film, <i>Tomb Raider</i>. We marvelled at Banteay Srei, a small, bijou temple
with ornately carved red sandstone bas reliefs nestled at the foot of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Kulen</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountains</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
where the air positively crackled with the ions of an impending storm, sending frenzied flocks
of Red-breasted parakeets shrieking to and from their roosts in the tall trees
nearby.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">It’s now
day four, we have used up our three day pass to the antiquities, and besides
feeling a little more adventurous, we’re keen to escape the thousands of other
tourists here. In particular the hordes of Chinese, every one a fashion
disaster, who seem impervious to other visitors, talking loudly and
persistently, hogging the best views to take endless photos but ruining ours by
barging into almost every frame. So we have booked an off-the-beaten-track journey
which will take us on a 125 km round trip to visit a stunning heavily overgrown
temple complex hidden deep in the jungle. And we are going to do this by Moto…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<h3>
<b><i><span lang="EN-IE"><span style="color: #990000;">On Yer Bike!</span></span></i></b></h3>
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<span lang="EN-IE">In <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Cambodia</st1:place></st1:country-region>, two
wheels definitely rule and the major means of transportation is the Moto. These
motorbikes, usually of around 125cc, are veritable work horses, zipping along the
narrowest dusty tracks deep in the Khmer countryside, or powering their way up
muddy mountainsides where no four wheeled vehicle dare go. We have just been
deposited by the side of a quiet road on the outskirts of Siem Reap and a
helmet has been thrust into my hand. I haven’t ridden a moped for over 30
years, let alone a motorbike with gears, and to say I’m apprehensive is an
understatement! Moreover, Martin has never been near a motorbike and is looking
on with considerable bemusement as we are shown how to start the engine and
operate the gears. No driving license is required and no questions asked about
any previous experience. Sensing our trepidation, our young guide from <i>Khmer
Tours</i> seeks to reassure us and we are given the opportunity of getting used to
riding our 125cc Honda Dreams along this quiet back road before we set off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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I quickly
get the knack of it and am soon whizzing up and down the road, waving as I pass
Martin who looks as far removed from ‘Easy Rider’ as it’s possible to be!
Within 15 minutes we’re deemed proficient enough to handle them and, following
our guide, enter the hectic flow of traffic out of Siem Reap. After a short
distance we turn off the main highway onto a narrow dirt track and the fun
begins. Weaving at speed around pools of muddy water is much more difficult
than it looks! I concentrate hard trying to maintain my balance and after
several minutes I begin to relax and enjoy the scenery.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">We pass through
densely vegetated jungle to emerge into open countryside comprised of tall palm
trees and watery flatlands vibrant green with young rice plants and dotted with cerise pink water lilies. A herd of water buffalo is slowly moving amid the
verdure and a man with a net, submerged to his knees, is fishing. We pause to
take photographs of this idyllic scene unaware that these paddy fields were
once strewn with landmines which have been cleared by a Dutch aid agency. When
told, we find it hard to believe that prime agricultural land such as this was
mined and shudder at the evil of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Cambodia</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s notorious killing
fields. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">Alongside
the road, half hidden and shaded by trees, are numerous wood and rattan houses
built on stilts. Pigs and cows wander freely, chickens scatter in all directions
as we pass and half naked children spill out onto the roadside to wave at us.
The Cambodians are undoubtedly the friendliest people I have met anywhere in
the world and its hard to reconcile the images of their beaming, beautiful
faces with the brutality and horror of Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge.</span></div>
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We emerge
back onto a tarmac road as the sky overhead begins to turn an ominous shade of
grey. Before long, large raindrops begin to fall and we are forced to take
shelter at a roadside dwelling. We are instantly welcomed into a farmstead comprising a couple of houses and some small sheds for livestock, and
are seated on a wooden platform under a rush roof as the rain comes down like
stair rods. A wooden ladder way leads up into an upper storey with rattan
walls and behind us a man is lethargically swinging in a hammock, seemingly
oblivious to the deluge. A family of four is sheltering on a similar platform
opposite, a small boy laughing loudly as a line of squawking chickens dart
underneath it for cover.</div>
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The rain
soon stops and back on the bikes we head towards a line of low hills in the
distance. A steady stream of Motos pass us and I am absolutely amazed by what
is conveyed on them: a family of four crammed together like sardines in
a can; a man with a huge wicker basket from which bulging sacks are suspended;
a woman almost hidden by an enormous load of freshly cut animal fodder; a young
man with two pig carcasses slung across the back… It’s a wonder they manage to
keep the bikes upright!!</div>
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Once again
we leave the main road, turning down a rough track through cultivated fields.
The underlying bedrock of laterite gives the earth here its distinctive rust
red colour which contrasts sharply with the bright green foliage of acres of
yams. Every so often we pass bagfuls of the tubers stacked up by the roadside
and are hailed loudly as we speed past, by the workers either harvesting them or
loading the bags onto huge trucks. By now the heat is great and would have been
intolerable but for the breeze set up by our passage. After traversing a maze
of roads and muddy tracks, we arrive at our destination, about 40 km due east
of Angkor Wat.</div>
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<h3>
<b><i><span lang="EN-IE"><span style="color: #990000;">Beng Mealea: ‘The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Lotus</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Pond</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Temple</st1:placetype></st1:place>’ </span></span></i></b></h3>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Having
taken lunch in a small roadside shack, we set off under a ferocious midday sun
to explore the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">temple</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename w:st="on">Beng Mealea</st1:placename></st1:place> which
means ‘lotus pond’. Dating from the early 12th century and built on the ancient
royal highway to Preah Khan Kompong Svay to the same floor plan as Angkor Wat,
this site has only been accessible in recent decades due to the civil war and
the presence of landmines in the area. It has not been restored and is largely
in the condition in which it was found by French archaeologists. The bus loads
of tourists that afflict the main sites at <st1:place w:st="on">Angkor</st1:place>
are pretty much absent here and intervention in the form of a wooden walkway
round the site to facilitate visitors is not really intrusive. In fact, most
tourists tend to stick to this walkway, but only metres away you can clamber
inside the ruins and have the place virtually to yourself. With its authentic
jungle atmosphere, the scene is set for a real Lara Croft adventure!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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We walk up
the southern approach causeway to the temple, past crumbling sandstone
balustrades sporting huge intricately carved <i>nagas</i>. The air is absolutely still, the heat tremendous, and the
sweat literally oozes out of me. At the top of the causeway we come to a jumble
of fallen moss covered stones surrounding a collapsed entranceway above which
enormous trees arch, offering some welcome shade. Continuing east along the
outside of a large wall, we head towards the SE corner pavilion arriving at the
wooden walkway. Eschewing this, we climb down into a narrow open enclosure and
clamber carefully through a partially barred entrance over a tumbled mass of fallen
masonry into one of the cruciform cloisters. The sun is mostly obscured by
the jungle canopy and inside, all is bathed in a strange green light; the
stones, still moist from the earlier rain and slick with moss and algae,
present formidable obstacles and great care must be taken to traverse the
chaotic jumble safely. We proceed, with the guidance of a local villager, to scramble in and out of the various enclosures spying small courtyards flooded with the
all pervading green luminescence through intricately carved stone window
balusters. These in particular lend an air of mystery and secrecy as it’s
almost impossible to see what lies behind them.</div>
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The villager takes us on a tortuous route through dark interconnecting galleries, along narrow ledges and over
roof tops. We often have to crouch down to squeeze through small spaces to
continue our exploration, passing huge webs with terrifying-looking spiders lurking in the centre. My skins crawls! Lichen encrusted pediments and collapsed friezes depict
legends of Vishnu, Shiva and the Buddha and finely carved <i>apsaras</i>, the very epitome of serenity, stare seductively from the
walls. Even though the inner sanctuary has collapsed, the former grandeur of
the site can be glimpsed in its ambitious vaulting.</div>
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But this is
a temple engaged in a desperate struggle with the jungle which seems to be
slowly strangling and choking the life out of it. Lianas the thickness of a
man’s arm hang down from enormous silk-wood trees and the aptly named strangler
fig, the roots of which have colonised the blue sandstone walls and roofs of all
the buildings. It resembles a skeletal mesh that is stealthily encasing the
entire site. I find the sight mildly disturbing and quite eerie as it reminds
me of the visual effects created by Giger for the <i>Alien</i> films. Clouds of bright red dragonflies fill the air, and,
apart from our laboured breathing and the constant drone of thousands of
insects, the silence is profound and slightly unnerving. At this moment, I
really feel as if I am in an India Jones movie!</div>
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Scrambling
over the tumbled mass of stone is, however, absolutely exhausting in the
relentless humidity. I had no idea it was even possible to sweat this much. My
cotton shirt is totally drenched and rivulets of sweat are cascading down my
spine and running down from my temples to drip off my chin. We complete our
visit by taking a walk around the perimeter of the site, admiring the sheer
scale of it and the mastery of its creators.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">It’s then
time to begin the journey back to Siem Reap on the Motos. After the stifling
heat of the temple, I am relieved to feel the cooling effects of the breeze as
we speed through the countryside past children playing in flooded paddy fields, people returning from working the land and women cooking out in the open on rustic clay ovens. We take a slightly different
route this time, if anything more difficult and exhilarating, involving some
very narrow muddy farm tracks and across rickety bridges where waves of panic
sweep over me when I see how close I am wavering to the water’s edge! There is even
a river crossing which is deeper than it looks: taken in third gear, my feet
and legs get drenched. Local people stop to wave, amused no doubt by the sight
of two foreigners struggling to stay upright on the slippery roads! Dodging
slow moving ox carts and speeding Motos, we make our way along the bright
orange tracks without mishap, arriving back at Siem Reap some eight hours later.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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I’m not
sure our travel insurers would have been too happy with our escapades, but
I thoroughly enjoyed the chance to escape into the countryside to see the real <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Cambodia</st1:place></st1:country-region> and to
explore a temple tucked away in the jungle far from the tourist hordes. And, of
course, fancying myself as <i>Tomb Raider’s</i>
Lara Croft for a few hours... Well, a girl’s allowed to dream after all!</div>
Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-5269986519142457372014-10-14T12:59:00.000-07:002015-02-08T12:21:57.350-08:00Five days in the Eastern Himalaya: The Sandakphu-Phalut trek, India and Nepal<h3>
<b><i><span lang="EN-IE"><span style="color: #990000;">Day One: Monsoon
Madness!</span></span></i></b></h3>
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I step into
a room with a cement washed floor. Faded and dusty, age curled posters depicting
blooming rhododendrons, conifer forests, red pandas and snow clad mountains
cover the grubby plastered walls. ‘Namaste, welcome to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Singalila</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">National Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>’,
says a man in a beige uniform, hands pressed together. He bows deeply and
smiles broadly as he places a white <i>khata</i> (scarf) with red and black patterns round
my neck to wish me a safe journey. ‘Namaste’ I reply, repeating his gesture. The
park, which is closed from June 16 to September 15 each year on account of the
monsoon rains and animal breeding season, has only this day reopened and we are the first official
tourists of the new trekking season.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">It’s around
midday and we have just arrived in the <st1:placetype w:st="on">village</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename w:st="on">Manebhanjan</st1:placename> from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:place></st1:city>, a 26 km journey along shockingly
bad mountain roads by jeep. We are about to embark on a five-day trek of over 70
km with <i>Adventures Unlimited</i>, a Darjeeling based adventure travel company. The
cost, $<st1:country-region w:st="on">US</st1:country-region> 300 each which
includes the services of a guide, all accommodation, and food and transport to and
from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:city></st1:place>.
There is no porter service, so we have to carry all our gear including rain
wear, spare items of clothing and a sleeping bag, which just about fit into a
35 litre rucksack. Large sections of the route lie in the <st1:placename w:st="on">Singalila</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">National Park</st1:placetype>, declared a Wildlife
Sanctuary in 1986 and an <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Indian</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">National Park</st1:placetype></st1:place> in 1992. The
two highest peaks of <st1:place w:st="on">West Bengal</st1:place>, Sandakphu (3,630
m) and Phalut (3,600 m), are located on the Singalila Ridge and we will be
climbing to the summit of each. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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You cannot
do the trek without a permit and an official nature guide. Ours is a man named ‘DG’, a very polite powerfully built yet small framed Sherpa with one pierced ear, his initials tattooed on his hand, who looks much
older than his 38 years. He ushers us into a tiny restaurant. Here we enjoy a
hearty meal of freshly steamed beef and cabbage <i>momo</i> (Nepali dumplings) served
with red garlic chilli sauce and a steaming bowl of oily broth washed down
with lashings of black tea. Before the off, there is just one more formality:
we must register with the Indian army. Further down the road we enter a rather
grimy office with pale green wooden panelling. A plainclothes man sitting
behind an oversized wooden desk inspects our passports and meticulously and
slowly copies all the information into a large, dog-eared ledger. He then asks
us to sign our names before wishing us a successful trip.</div>
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Through the
open door I can see huge drops of rain hammering down incessantly on the dirt street
full of potholes and awash with muddy water. Water cascades noisily off the
roofs of the two and three storey concrete buildings interspersed with
corrugated iron shacks. It’s mid-September and the monsoon season should be drawing
to a close. Local people seem unperturbed by the rains; sari clad women out
shopping wander up and down the dreary street. Most are shod in sandals and carry
umbrellas to keep the worst of the rain off, while men bent double under heavy
loads aren’t even bothering to avoid getting wet. It doesn’t feel cold. We,
however, are clad in GoreTex clothing from head to toe. Stepping outside, the
strident hiss that instantly descends on our jackets is a sobering indicator of
the strength of the monsoon rain and we have around 13 km to walk with an
ascent of nearly 800 metres ahead of us. Walking through the bazaar of this bustling
village past small shops with fruit and vegetables literally flowing out onto
the pavements, dodging cattle and a constant flow of jeeps loudly honking their
horns, we pass a flight of crumbling concrete steps with a sign that says
‘Welcome to Nepal’ in Nepali and English.</div>
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This village
is right on the border between the Indian state of West Bengal and the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Kingdom</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Nepal</st1:placename></st1:place> and the 5-day route we are going
to take actually weaves its way in and out of the two countries. The Singalila National Park is especially
famous for its rhododendrons and magnolia trees that flower in spring, and, as
it falls in the Indomalaya ecozone, three biomes are present: the Eastern
Himalayan subalpine conifer forests of the Temperate coniferous forests (3,000
to 4,000 m); the Eastern Himalayan broadleaf forests of the Temperate broadleaf
and mixed forests (3,000 m to 4,500 m) and the Himalayan subtropical pine
forests of the Subtropical coniferous forest (1,800 to 3,000 m). The park’s
fauna includes the Red Panda, Leopard Cat, Barking Deer, Yellow-throated
Marten, Wild Boar, Pangolin and the Pika. Larger mammals include the Himalayan
Black Bear, Leopard, Clouded Leopard, Serow and Takin, and there are over 120
species of birds including many rare and exotic species. It’s unlikely that we
will see any of these creatures, especially the Red Panda, of which there are
only around two dozen in the park, but a visit to Darjeeling Zoo the day
before ensured that we had seen a good many of the above species.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">As we pass
beyond the outskirts of town, the paved road begins to climb steeply through
conifer trees and bamboo groves. Almost instantly, I begin to sweat heavily. Before
long I stop to remove my glasses; it’s impossible to see through them as the
rain is so intense they are covered with water drops and have misted over with
perspiration. We trudge on along the steepening road up numerous hair pin bends
stopping occasionally for a jeep to pass by. Within 15 minutes I am literally drenched
in sweat and the GoreTex jacket feels useless. I’m as wet inside as out! I
can’t say I am enjoying this experience at all and negative thoughts begin to
crowd my mind: ‘what if the whole five days are like this and there will be
nothing to see? It will be an utterly miserable experience! If the weather
continues like this, should we simply throw in the towel and return to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:city></st1:place>?’ One look at
Martin and I can sense he is thinking the same as me!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">We have
been walking for over an hour and I am relieved when DG tells us that we will
soon be stopping at a tea house in a place called Chitre just inside <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Nepal</st1:place></st1:country-region>. This is music
to my ears, as the pace set for the ascent so far has been quite fast and the
gradient is among the steepest along the whole 5-day route. The trees begin to
thin out giving way gradually to a large grassy expanse with signs of
cultivation. As we ascend higher, I spot the white and gold of a Buddhist stupa
rising above a collection of corrugated iron and thatched roofed wooden houses,
above which limp prayer flags struggle to flutter in the downpour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">We enter a dimly
lit building past a kitchen lined with shelves of huge pots and pans and rows
of neatly displayed china plates and tea cups. A woman is standing over a gas stove
stirring a large pot of dahl while a man wearing a Nepali hat and golden
wellies watches her motionless from a nearby couch. DG helps me peel off my
soaked jacket and we pass into a room with bare floorboards and lilac painted
walls containing several tables and chairs. A row of windows flood the room
with light and give panoramic views of the mountainside and stupa below, just
visible through the cloud. A flat screen TV loudly broadcasting the news takes
pride of place. We make ourselves comfortable at one of the tables by a window.
An old man with a white beard in a check trilby hat is seated on a couch nearby
eating a meal of rice and dahl watched by a young girl, and in the corner
opposite us a young man is sipping a cup of tea watching the news intently. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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It seems a Chinese
delegation is in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place>
in connection with a high speed train project. The young man lifts his head
with a snort of derision and he and the old man strike up a conversation. Judging
from the young man’s body language and the tone of his voice, it is obvious he
does not think much of the scheme. The old man glances at the screen
occasionally through bleary eyes, but he seems more interested in his plate of rice
and dahl. I am discussing the possible content of the news bulletin with
Martin, when the young man tells us in surprisingly good English that the
Chinese had been in Mumbai to press the Indian government to agree to let them build
a bullet train line to Ahmedabad. He believes they are trying to undercut a similar
project which Prime Minister Modi had recently discussed with the Japanese. It
turns out that he is a Sherpa, as are many of the people who live in this part
of north eastern India, and his dislike of the Chinese is evident. ‘The Chinese
are our enemy,’ he says, eyes narrowing, ‘you cannot trust them’. With this he
rises, bows, and wishes us a good trek, nodding to the old man who mumbles something in reply as he leaves the room.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">I drain the
remains of my teacup, reluctant to return to the incessant rain. Putting on my
sodden jacket is a thoroughly unpleasant experience and I wonder whether a
plastic poncho and an umbrella like DG has would not have been a more sensible
option. It feels like I have entered a power shower as I leave the tea house.
The gradient is less steep now and we leave the road every so often, taking
short cuts along smaller, unpaved tracks running over the spine of a hill above
steep wooded valleys. DG alerts us to the presence of leeches, one of which has
attached itself to his trouser leg. Undoubtedly the scenery would be breathtaking
if only we could see it, but the rain continues to fall steadily from a light
grey sky. Around an hour later and back on the main road, I spot a black and
white distance marker. These will become constant companions over the next few
days. It notes that Lamey Dhura is one kilometre away and, as we are making
good time, DG asks if we would like to stop there for another cup of tea. A
suggestion that is quickly accepted!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">As we
approach Lamey Dhura, a hamlet of just five Sherpa families, the rain begins to
ease a bit and gaps in the cloud appear revealing more of the surrounding
deeply wooded valleys and mountains. The wet road cobbles leading down to a cluster
of </span><span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white;">desultory </span><span lang="EN-IE">shacks gleam in the glassy light. Chickens scatter as we approach the
rather grandly named Lamey Dhura Sherpa Tea Stall past a wattle cowshed with
its forlorn-looking occupant tied up near the doorway. It was too wet to sit
outside, so we were ushered into what can only be described as a hovel.
Never before have I witnessed such abject poverty. On an earthen floor huddled
together on low stools round a crudely fashioned clay fireplace built up
against a wall are three dishevelled adults barely visible in the clouds of
blue wood smoke rising up into the wattle roof. They warmly welcome us, a
grubby curtain is pulled aside and we’re shown into a room with two couches
covered in a vividly patterned fabric down either side, on top of which folded
blankets and items of clothing lie scattered about. A table with a soiled lace
cloth, a couple of grimy plastic chairs and a rickety wooden cupboard
containing plastic dishes complete the furniture.</span></div>
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The wattle
walls are lined with plastic sheeting and newspaper. One wall sports a garish
poster of two infants, while a further curtain hides the entrance to a room beyond. The shack
is neither wind tight or water tight, and an enamel bowl on one of the couches is
steady collecting drops of rain water seeping in through a broken skylight in
the roof. Deep pits on the earthen floor betray the presence of other leaks. I
remove my jacket and sit down at the table in front of a large tray of red and
green chilli peppers which are being dried. My sodden woollen base layer begins
to steam and I feel chilly and uncomfortable in this miserable room. Thankfully
cups of steaming hot black tea and a plate of biscuits soon arrive which raise
my sprit. The man who brought the tea disappears into the room beyond and I
catch a glimpse of a woman and a child huddled together in bed, probably to
escape the damp and cold. Life in this remote community must be one of
continual hardship in the face of such grinding poverty. There isn’t any
comfort in this shack which is little better than that occupied by the family
cow and it disturbs me to see people living in such wretched conditions in the
21<sup>st</sup> century. I’m not at all sorry when DG signals it’s time to
leave, even though that means a return to the rain.</div>
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I am
however, delighted to discover that the monsoon deluge has now virtually
stopped as we step outside to begin the 2.5 km leg to Meghma, the last village
before Tumling where we will stop for the night. I begin to enjoy the walk as
the cloud drifts languidly up through the densely forested valleys of chimal
and magnolia trees, I notice lots of colourful flowers along the roadside and
patches of pale blue sky begin to peek though the clouds. Meghma, from the Nepali
word for ‘cloud’ isn’t living up to its name at all, and we can clearly see the
stupa of a monastery and a cluster of buildings, many two storied, below which
is an Indian army camp. As the village lies right on the border between <st1:country-region w:st="on">India</st1:country-region> and <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Nepal</st1:place></st1:country-region>, we must stop to have our
passports inspected and our details recorded at the Indian border check post.</div>
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After
signing the register, we pause to admire the Sangchen Ugagyur Hoshal Dechen Choling
Buddhist monastery before passing through the small Nepalese village. The
people who live in the cluster of brightly painted houses, some built of stone
and wood with impressive window boxes of bright orange begonias, are Sherpa.
Children smile and wave at us as we walk by. The village has a friendly,
welcoming feel to it. This is a farming community and we pass by numerous
wattle pigsties and cowsheds, noisy hen houses, and meet people driving their cattle.
A man with a large wicker basket is washing root vegetables at a spring. A
simple ‘Namaste’ draws an instant smile and reciprocal greeting from everyone
we meet.</div>
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We take the
drivable 4X4 road to Tumling passing by a wall on the top of a hill covered in
brightly coloured Buddhist motifs before coming to a number of small
whitewashed buildings sited on a stream and surrounded by prayer flags. We stop
to inspect the one nearest the road to discover a small horizontal waterwheel
driving a prayer wheel in the room above. A plaque on the exterior of the
building stating that it was dedicated to the ‘welfare and prosperity of all
sentient beings’ and expressing the hope that ‘peace and harmony would prevail
on the universe forever’, catches my eye. I am touched by the beliefs of these
gentle Sherpa people.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">The road
rises steeply as we approach Tumling, another Nepalese settlement at an
altitude of 2,970m. We arrive here well before dark after a journey time of about
5 hours including stops. We are staying at the <i>Shikar Lodge</i>, a chalet type
building of stone and wood with a corrugated red iron roof sporting window
boxes brim full of bright begonias. Across a small courtyard are several rooms
for trekkers, all named after local flowers, and we are very pleased with <i>Aster</i>, the one
allocated to us. Wood panelled and carpeted for warmth, it is clean and contains
two large beds, a table and an en suite bathroom. Hot water is instantly
arranged for us and I feel much better after I have washed, changed into a dry
base layer and Martin opens a large bottle of beer. As it’s early in the
trekking season, the lodge isn’t yet well provisioned and, as this is the only
bottle of beer left, we cherish every sip! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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DG tells us
that dinner will be delayed slightly, as the cook, who is also a school
teacher, is preparing a local chicken for us, so we have time to leisurely finish
our beer and have a snooze. It’s pitch black when he knocks on our door to
announce that our meal is ready. This is taken in the dining room of the main
building opposite. We are shown into a large room with bare wooden floorboards where
a window table has been set for us. The wooden walls are painted green and
adorned with numerous framed photographs of the mountain views, flora and
fauna, as well as certificates, flags and other mementoes from mountaineering
and trekking clubs from <st1:country-region w:st="on">India</st1:country-region>,
<st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Nepal</st1:place></st1:country-region>
and well beyond.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Beside us
is a stone built fireplace. Unfortunately, no fire has been lit and it feels
decidedly chilly. As there is no restriction on burning wood on the Nepali side
of the border, and given the nature of the weather that day, it would have been
nice to have had a small fire so we could warm up and dry some of our wet
clothing. DG on the other hand, is warming himself in the kitchen next to the
cooking fire, a pattern we will see repeated over the next few days. The food
is simple, delicious and plentiful, consisting of vegetable soup, local
condiments, jeera aloo, plain rice, dahl, chapattis and the chicken in a spicy sauce.
However, I will never understand how every cook in this part of the world manages
to absolutely massacre cooking a chicken which universally seems to have little
or no meat on it! I get the scrawny neck, a rubbery bit of the wing and some
offal from this one! A desert of apple and custard follows.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Stomachs
full, we retire to bed as DG is planning to wake us around dawn if the
mountains make an appearance. <i>Adventures Unlimited</i> supplied me with a new three
season North Face sleeping bag (synthetic), but Martin, weighed down with a
tripod and lots of camera equipment, chose not to take the one offered him, preferring
to take a chance with the blankets that were provided at each hut. Our room at
Tumling proves to be fairly warm and blankets plentiful and we both enjoy a cosy
and sound night’s sleep.</div>
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<h3>
<b><i><span lang="EN-IE"><span style="color: #990000;">Day Two: The Slog to
Sandakphu</span></span></i></b></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is well
after dawn when DG knocks on our door to tell us that the cloud had finally lifted
and the mountains were now visible. We quickly dress and walk the short
distance uphill through the village to a grassy viewpoint by a rusty old
signpost with a barely legible ‘Welcome to Singalila National Park’ inscribed
on it. I stare into the distance directly ahead of me where veils of white
cloud are draped like silken scarves across the blue-green outline of what seem
like hundreds of interlocking mountain ridges. I can’t initially see any snow
covered peaks, but then, to my utter amazement, I realise that I’m not looking
high enough and it is only when I raise my eyes that I see the magnificent
sight of Kanchenjunga soaring well above the white veils of cloud, its five snowy
peaks glinting in the sunlight against a powder blue sky. At 8,586 m, this is the
third highest mountain in the world, and unsurprisingly, was once thought to be
the highest; in the Tibetan language it translates as ‘the five treasures of
the high snow’. We are about 60 km away, but this mountain is absolutely huge
and it takes me a while to get my head around how enormous an 8,000m plus mountain
actually is.</div>
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DG points
out our final destination of the day, the summit of Sandakphu, the highest
point in the Indian state of <st1:place w:st="on">West Bengal</st1:place>, where
a cluster of buildings can be clearly seen. It looks a long way off and will
involve a steep descent and ascent through an intervening valley, a distance of
about 21 km. Far below the summit on a ridge is another settlement named Kalipokhri
where we will stop for lunch before the final steep pull up a zig-zag road to
Sandakphu.</div>
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Having
taken our fill of our first sight of the mighty <st1:place w:st="on">Himalaya</st1:place>,
we return to the lodge for breakfast. Porridge, more jeera aloo and a delicious
local bread are placed in front of us which we consume with gusto washed down
by black tea. I never fail to smile when I hear people from this part of the
world seamlessly slip a large number of English words into their languages –
the ubiquitous ‘black tea’ is one such phrase! We set off at 7.30 am heading
towards the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">village</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename w:st="on">Jhaubari</st1:placename></st1:place> about 4 km
from Tumling, passing through an elaborate iron gateway and a check post into
the park en route. The weather is quite benign, warm but not particularly humid.
The route meanders up and down along the top of a ridge offering fine views
over <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Nepal</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
the landscape dotted with numerous small farms of wattle houses, cattle sheds
and pigsties surrounded by rectangles of verdant crops. However, I notice how
deforested this side of the Singalila ridge is compared to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> where the
forests are protected. In <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Nepal</st1:place></st1:country-region>
much of tree cover has vanished – felled mainly for firewood.</div>
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Within an
hour we spot the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">village</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename w:st="on">Jhaubari</st1:placename></st1:place> spread out in
a ragged line across a hill top in the distance. On the approach to the village
we pass by a whitewashed Buddhist shrine and a number of abandoned and decaying
buildings before entering the muddy main street lined with prayer flags and flapping laundry.
Brightly painted private houses sporting satellite dishes, mere shacks and scruffy shops parade cheek by jowl, side by side: the long and the short, the wide and the narrow. Rusting
tin shacks and thatched hovels of wattle and daub elbow single storied tin
roofed buildings and double storied trekkers’ lodges with stone façades, as
heterogeneous a jumble of decay and pretence as could be imagined. An elderly woman,
hair scrapped back in a bun and brandishing a walking stick, is coming down the
muddy cobbled road driving a flock of goats. She expertly turns them down the
road towards Gairibas. We follow her.</div>
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Parts of
the road down to Gairibas are very steep and its cobbled surface is in a
parlous condition in places, washed out by the monsoon rains. I wonder that any
vehicle can get up to Jhaubari. However, the work horses of the Singalila ridge
can: the mighty Land Rover, much loved and cherished by the local Sherpa. I
don’t think anywhere else in the world has such a concentration of these
vehicles, many of which, green paint chipped to the metal, are older than me! I
watch intrigued as a first series groans up the wretched road in front of me, belching
blue fumes as it lurches this way and that, making steady upward progress. Without
the Land Rover, many of these remote mountain communities would find it hard to
get provisioned and would be totally reliant on mules. In fact, it is possible
to take a Land Rover ride all the way to the summit of Sandakphu, a trip
offered by many of the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:place></st1:city>
tour companies. But that would be cheating!!</div>
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The road is
fairly busy not just with jeeps, but also people on foot. A man carrying a
large wicker basket slung over his shoulder rushes by us going downhill and
another in gold wellies brandishing a long whip passes us slowly making his way
uphill with a grey mule, the bell round its neck clanging loudly. According to
DG, the panniers slung over the mule’s back contain buttermilk and the man is
en route to Manebhanjan to sell it. In fact, the production of buttermilk is big
business in these parts and the cattle that produce it may be seen grazing on
the lush grass all over the mountains. They look very different from the cattle
we have at home, much larger with curved horns and bushier tails; many are
actually yak hybrids. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiExNsPmaJJ3ep-VedF7CRbqkNyPNoy6fWrt6ZdeIqelzmR3KPOZHlPiv-551yaIEsdYNAejaEhH7YCLA4qc_nC12CraqXY9acFoDzIqlCqhRzxVYFWxVihwi2k04umbHOgU3X691sPw4ct/s1600/Asia-63.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiExNsPmaJJ3ep-VedF7CRbqkNyPNoy6fWrt6ZdeIqelzmR3KPOZHlPiv-551yaIEsdYNAejaEhH7YCLA4qc_nC12CraqXY9acFoDzIqlCqhRzxVYFWxVihwi2k04umbHOgU3X691sPw4ct/s1600/Asia-63.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The air
temperature begins to rise as we proceed to the valley bottom and by the time
we enter Gairibas I am sweating profusely. We make our way past several malodorous
wattle buildings housing livestock to the army check point opposite the grandly
named <i>Magnolia Lodge</i>. A young man in uniform takes my passport which he
examines intently, leafing through each page inspecting the various stamps
within. He is looking for my Indian visa and once located, slowly and
methodically copies all the relevant information into a huge ledger. I’m glad
of the break, a chance to remove my pack and take the weight off my feet before
we begin the slow climb up the road leading out of the valley towards Kalipokhri,
which is about 6 km away. It’s now mid-morning and the humidity is high. The constant
chirping of cicadas is almost deafening as we pass through thick bamboo groves
and the densely wooded lower section of the road. This is undoubtedly much
steeper than yesterday’s road up from Manebhanjan and I can feel the sweat
running down my cheeks and dripping off my chin. The cloud now suddenly descends
swallowing the views, but brings almost instant relief as the temperature falls
making climbing less onerous.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The road rises
steadily through forests of oak and rhododendron before levelling off and then descending.
We round a corner to find a team of men repairing a damaged section of it on
the hill going down to the small settlement of Kaiyankata. It looks like very
hard work: one man constantly fetching stone in a wicker basket; another
breaking it down to a suitable size then setting these new cobbles into place
and a third shovelling and packing gravel between the cobbles to make a level
surface. At Kaiyankata we make a welcome stop at a Sherpa tea shop, a low
wattle building with a rusty iron roof surrounded by fluttering prayer flags
and well tended gardens. </div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
The fragrant smell of wood smoke fills the air and
following thin blue puffs of vapour being emitted from a nearby roof, I enter the
kitchen, a lean too constructed against the main building. I am instantly
seated on a small stool in front of a long, rustic clay oven built up against
the wall. The wood burning in the central semicircular fireplace emits a
welcoming red glow. On top of it two pots are gently steaming away. Nearby is
another fireplace which is not in use and there are two sets of three small
circular clay domes where pots removed from the fire are placed to cool down.
It’s an ingenious, low tech method of cooking and I would have loved the chance
to try my hand at cooking on it.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
As the
water is being heated up for black tea, Martin and I are conducted into a small
room with a wooden floor, table and two couches. A simple wooden shelf running
the length of a wall houses a collection of bowls, plates and mugs. A dusty and
faded paper flower display in a vase on the table attempts to add a splash of
colour. I take off my boots and socks and sit crossed legged on the couch soaking
up the atmosphere. A cream coloured dog with a matted coat strolls in the door, sniffs the couch
nearest it and duly urinates over the leg and fabric covering before we shoo it
out loudly. My stomach churns! The hygiene in these tea shops leaves much to be
desired!</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE">After being
refreshed with black tea and sweet coconut biscuits, we press on towards Kalipokhri
where we will stop for lunch. The road is cut into the hillside above deeply
incised valleys densely forested with oak, magnoila and rhododendron and we
cross several crystal clear mountain streams tumbling down noisily from on high.
The road here appears to be less well used, more overgrown with weeds and
vegetation and we encounter many colourful flowers. Dense clusters of small
white flowers with yellow centres are particularly fragrant, but DG, our trained nature guide, has no idea
what they are! We spy some raspberry canes
and stop to pick handfuls of the small, sweet juicy berries.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After just
over an hour we spot the stupa of a small shrine on a knoll above a lily
covered pool of brackish water, across which are strung lines of coloured
prayer flags. Light raindrops trace concentric circles across the mirror flat
surface of the pool, blurring the reflection of the flags above. We have
reached Kalipokhri, named for this pool which means ‘black water area’. We soon
encounter a collection of algae stained cement and galvanised iron buildings, a few of which
appear to be trekkers’ lodges, flaunting their misery across a muddy road
foetid with animal ordure. A few straggly chickens foraging in the grass at the
base of the buildings and the cloud billowing across the road lends the place a
melancholy dreariness.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
We step
from the road into a room with an earthen floor containing a large table and
numerous plastic chairs, ingrained with grime, as seems to be customary in
these villages. Adjoining this room is the kitchen, the clay oven glowing
brightly, firewood neatly stacked on a rack above it, below which corn cobs are
strung up to dry. DG takes up his usual spot right near the fireplace. We,
however, are consigned to shiver in the damp of the other room, the battered main door
to which is swinging wide open allowing the mist to blow in. The woman of the
house is going to cook soya bean and cabbage <i>momo</i> for our lunch. Meat seems to
be at a premium in these villages. Hot black tea soon makes its way to us and
we are grateful for the warmth as we have now climbed to over 3,000 metres and
it feels decidedly chilly up here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE">The <i>momo</i>
arrive steaming hot, and a brand new bottle of green chilli sauce is presented
by the man of the house to go with the spicy tomato sauce the woman has put in
a dish. It’s so cold, the sauce won’t leave the bottle easily and much
merriment is generated by all of us attempting to coax it out! The effort is
well worth it, as the sauce is delicious, as are the <i>momo</i>, and the cook is
delighted when we clear our plates, making seconds readily available.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE">We have
another six kilometres to go before we reach Sandakphu and the weather looks
like it is going to take a turn for the worse as we set off passing an old man
from the village of Gorkhey en route to Jhaubari with several brooms he has
made slung across his back. We pause briefly at Bhagsa, </span><span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.5pt;">a settlement of a few houses and a shop, where I spot DG buying some
tablets, before descending to </span><span lang="EN-IE">Bikheybhanjang</span><span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.5pt;"> past numerous sacred streams
bedecked with coloured prayer flags and rock outcrops inscribed with Buddhist symbols.
The going now begins to get tough as we commence the final ascent to the summit of
</span><span lang="EN-IE">Sandakphu. A flight of
steep steps lead up towards a white stupa bearing a pair of Buddha’s eyes,
wisely staring out over the valley below. We pause here for a short break, as
the altitude is now beginning to take its toll on all of us. I spy DG, leaning
heavily on his umbrella, slyly popping a couple of pills into his mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span></div>
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The road
now deteriorates into a deeply rutted track strewn with loose stone and
boulders and the gradient is punishing. My lungs feel fit to burst as we make
our way slowly up the zigzag road, gasping for breath the higher we climb. To
add insult to injury, the heavens open just a few kilometres from the summit
and we are forced to don full rain gear which makes the climb even more
uncomfortable. It is with some relief that I see a milestone emerge through the
gloom indicating that Sandakphu is 0 km away, but I am crest fallen to discover
from DG that we still have to traverse over 300 metres to reach the hut we’re
staying at. Dejected, I sit down heavily on the wall of the penultimate hair
pin bend as the rain literally pours down round me. Martin takes pity on me and produces
some energy sweets. Having devoured these, we make the final assault on the
road, arriving soaked through at the <i>Sunrise Lodge</i> some nine and a half hours
after leaving Tumling.</div>
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<br /></div>
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We are
shown down a dimly lit long, wet concrete corridor past a couple of squat
toilets to a cramped three bed dorm with a table and too few hooks to hang up
our wet clothing. Our room looks out over the mountains, but at the moment the
window is streaming in condensation and nothing of the scenery can be seen
through the rain. We change into dry clothing, order two beers and after we
have consumed these, take a snooze before dinner.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE">This is
served in an adjoining building, where DJ is already ensconced by the kitchen
fire. We are seated in an adjoining dining room at a table with a sticky plastic
table cloth. It feels so cold and damp in here that even a scrawny looking cat
with no name is trying to worm its way onto my lap. Seeing that it is riddled
with fleas, I push the poor thing away. Dinner is served but is hardly worth
getting excited about. DG had warned us about the meagreness of the food on
offer here and had brought along some popcorn and a packet of vegetable soup to
augment the plain boiled rice, masoor dahl and a small helping of cumin
flavoured potatoes which are served with rubbery chapattis. We eat in silence
casting our eyes towards a nearby wall which is inexplicably decorated with
cuttings from international cookery magazines. It’s absolute purgatory to partake
of this very bland meal while reading about, and seeing pictures of, Nigella
Lawson’s über-delicious culinary sensations! At least the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sikkim</st1:place></st1:country-region> beer ‘Hits’
the right spot!! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE">We don’t
hang round long, preferring to return to our room where we can climb into bed
to keep warm. However, on leaving the building, Martin notices that the sky has
completely cleared and the Milky Way casts a glorious arch high over our heads.
There is little light pollution here and, as our eyes become accustomed to the
dark, we see that the sky is literally peppered with an infinite number of various
sized stars. He sets the camera up to take some time lapse sequences before,
chilled to the bone, we retire for the night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<h3>
<b><i><span lang="EN-IE"><span style="color: #990000;">Day three: The
Sleeping Buddha</span></span></i></b></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a
fitful night’s sleep due to several dogs’ sporadic and annoying barking, we are
awoken by DG knocking on the door informing us that the mountains are clearly
visible. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I pull the curtains aside and wipe the
window free of condensation. The night sky is brightening rapidly with the
onset of dawn and deciding not to rush to dress like Martin, I remain in bed
and watch as the rising sun turns the five snowy peaks of the Kanchenjunga range
marshmallow pink, then soft apricot, before eventually brightening to creamy white.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE">When I
finally arrive at the viewing point on a small wooded hill a five minute walk
away from the hut, Martin points out that from here <st1:place w:st="on">Kanchenjunga</st1:place>
and its surrounding peaks look like the body of a giant sleeping Buddha. The
mountain is considered a holy deity in the State of Sikkim and climbers are not
permitted to surmount its summit. We stand in reverent awe for nearly half an
hour watching the cloud playing about the valleys and endless interlocking
grey-green ridges below this giant mountain, before strolling back to the hut
for breakfast, stopping en route to admire the incredible view of the road we
had climbed yesterday switch-backing its way up the spine of the ridge all the
way from Bikheybhanjang. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Sunlight is
streaming in through the windows of the dining room making it a far more
welcoming place to sit and eat than the night before. A pot of black tea
arrives and we sip this while waiting for our breakfast. The man of the house
enters the room with a flourish, brandishing a small brass plate containing
charcoal and incense which he waves about in front of a small shrine, before
wandering round the room allowing the fragrance to permeate the four corners.
He then sits down opposite us and proceeds to add up some bills with the aid of
a calculator, mumbling loudly as he enters the amounts meticulously into a
well-thumbed grubby ledger. Breakfast is no better than dinner, and I am
disheartened to lift the lid of a plastic container to discover a large doughy
pancake wrapped in old newspaper. I turn down the watery porridge, fearful that
the milk might upset my stomach, and smear something resembling raspberry jam
onto the pancake. Every mouthful lodges in my throat and I eye the nearby
pictures of Nigella’s recipes longingly!</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
The route
to Phalut, 21 km in total, traverses the top of the Singalilia Ridge; there is
no proper water supply and only one small tea shop en route. As it’s so early
in the trekking season, DG is unsure whether or not this will be open. Water is
the least of my concerns: the lack of food, and therefore calories, is far more
worrying. DG had been hoping to take some boiled eggs with us to eat en route,
but we are informed there are none to be had in Sandakphu. I find this hard to
believe as there are chickens running about everywhere! This private lodge
seems to be particularly badly run, with inadequate provisioning and very poor
food for which there is no excuse, as Land Rovers arrive here daily.</div>
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The sun is
hot on our shoulders as we leave the cluster of buildings round the summit. The
air is perfectly still and the atmosphere clear, revealing a long line of
mountains, the sleeping Buddha being particularly prominent. Sandakphu means ‘height
of the poison plants’ and we pass a tall clump of attractive deep purple
flowers which have lent their name to this place, a species of Monkshood with
the botanical name of <i>Aconitum ferox</i>, colloquially known as Indian Aconite,
considered to be the most deadly plant in the world. I seem to recall a murder that took place in London several years ago involving a woman who poisoned her husband by lacing a curry with aconite, earning her the moniker 'The Curry Killer'. A deadly plant indeed, but absolutely
beautiful to look at!</div>
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Martin
suddenly stops and stares into the blue yonder, before pointing to a distant
mountain peak. ‘That’s Everest’ he says quietly. An unexpected wave of emotion
washes over me as humbled, I behold the world’s highest peak sandwiched between
Lhotse and <st1:place w:st="on">Makalu</st1:place>. Martin is excited - although
about 160 km away, through his binoculars he can clearly see the <st1:place w:st="on">South Col</st1:place> and the Hillary Step below the summit. I am
delighted for him as I know how much he has always wanted to see this mighty
mountain. Here the view is grand indeed, unimpeded by trees or buildings, and
we feast our eyes on an unforgettable 180 degree view of the Eastern Himalaya with ranges belonging to Nepal on the west, Sikkim and Bhutan in the middle and
Arunachal Pradesh in the east, spotting four of the five highest mountains on
Earth.</div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Our cameras
snap away for several minutes before we continue along the undulating road
through a delightful sylvan landscape of silver fir, oak, rhododendron and
magnolia which look magnificent bathed in autumn sunshine under an impossibly
blue sky. DG points out an unusual looking bird foraging for insects in some
grass by the side of the road, confidently informing us that it’s a type of
magpie. Having lived in the </span><st1:place style="text-align: left;" w:st="on">Middle East</st1:place><span style="text-align: left;">, I
instantly recognise it as a hoopoe, an exotic looking bird with cinnamon pink
plumage, black and white wings and tail, curved beak and a striking rust and
black stripped crest…</span></div>
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After
around 4 km the landscape begins to change; the trees thin out, eventually
giving way to rolling grassland dotted with the silvered and skeletal remains
of numerous dead silver fir and patches of flowers, including cerise pink Geraniums. According to DG, the trees were destroyed in deadly storms that periodically
afflict this region, but I rather think they have been subjected to a fire. We
leave the track, passing by a herd of goats and a series of pools so blue they
look as if they have swallowed the entire sky, their mirror still surfaces perfectly
reflecting the stunted remains of the dead conifers. The scene is hauntingly beautiful,
but there is no time to stop and soak up the atmosphere as Phalut is still
over 13 km away.<br />
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<span lang="EN-IE">We have to
stop at another army checkpoint and knowing that it will take some time to process
and record our passport and visa information, I am grateful for the opportunity
to drop my heavy backpack as the humidity and altitude is already making me
feel tired. From reading official descriptions of the route, I was given to
believe that Sandakphu to Phalut was a leisurely stroll along the Singalila
Ridge, but now DG informs us that this is not the case at all. We must descend
about 400m, only to ascend over another 350m more to reach the hut at Phalut. To
say I feel cheated is an understatement. It would have been nice to have had more
accurate information about the trek before we started.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">To add
insult to injury, we realise that we have lost, or failed to pack, our
sunscreen and Martin’s head and forearms are getting burnt. We manage to protect
the top of his head with a buff and begin the steep descent down a metalled
road with numerous hairpin bends towards a broad valley bottom where we take a
well earned rest on a fallen silver fir. I remove my boots and socks to let
the air get at my feet which, white and wrinkled, resemble two steamed
puddings! The lack of calories is beginning to take its toll and I am relieved
to find a high energy chewy bar lurking in the depths of my rucksack. As we begin
the lung bursting climb up towards Phalut through forests of conifers,
chestnuts, rhododendron and magnolia, the cloud descends like a silent shroud,
and we welcome the instant cooling effect this brings. Saffron coloured fungi
dot the ground beneath some of the trees and the sight of massive silver firs,
some partially stunted, standing sentinel like a silent army in the churning
mist, is slightly unnerving.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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The trees
eventually begin to thin out, the terrain becomes grassier and we spot lots of flowers, including the beautiful deep blue Himalayan gentian
and mauve coloured Aster. About 7 km from Phalut, we arrive at Sabarkum, a
collection of rectangular and circular galvanised huts half hidden in thigh
high yellow grass, with a line of prayer flags strung across the track way
leading to it. All looks deadly quiet and I begin to despair of it being open
for lunch, when a head appears in one of the doorways. DG runs ahead to speak
to this man.<br />
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Luckily for
us, the tea shop is ready for business and hot noodle soup, steamed potatoes
and black tea are on offer! DG has also brought along some cheese and apples
and we greedily tuck into this meagre fare, glad to replenish our weary bodies
with much needed calories. After buying some bottled water, we continue on our
way down a steep and rutted road, one of the arterial routes from <st1:country-region w:st="on">Nepal</st1:country-region> to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> through this mountain range. We
pass several Asian trekkers brandishing umbrellas and little else, who had come
from Gorkey and were en route to a place called Molley, about 2 km from Sabarkum.</div>
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The route now
undulates along a ridge above densely forested valleys, the tops of the trees
poking up through the mist which billows across the road in front of us. Fine
drops of rain begin to fall, but we decide not to stop and don our rain gear
which is still quite wet from the previous monsoon downpours. It’s a good call,
as the mist soon begins to lift, blue sky replaces the gloom and sunshine
floods a quite stunning landscape of verdant rolling hills grazed by yak
hybrids. Their clanging bells break the erstwhile silence. Phalut is derived
from the Lepcha word <i>Fak-Luk</i>, which means ‘<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Barren</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Peak</st1:placetype></st1:place>’, and this landscape
is a real contrast to the dense forests that are so common at the lower levels.
However, I wouldn’t describe it as barren, as it looks chocolate box pretty at
this time of the year.</div>
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The final 2
km of the day involves another steep climb up towards the hut we’re staying at,
but this is leavened somewhat by the majestic scenery and the sight of several
herders donning whips and whistling loudly as they drive their herds of yak
hybrids through the lush green pasturelands. Close to the top, I pause for
breath. The sight of the hills and ridge we had just traversed bathed in the
warm tones of late afternoon sunshine rising above columns of luminescent cloud
slowly churning in the valleys below, is utterly magnificent.</div>
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We finally reach the hut run by the Gorkhaland Territorial Administration (GTA) at Phalut,
a large stone building with a rusty roof of galvanised sheeting, passing a man
with a grey mule who shows us to the entrance. I can scarcely believe my eyes
when we enter a dusty rubbish strewn wooden corridor and DG conducts us to our
room. The place is absolutely filthy, the painted wood panelled walls ingrained
with years of grime. Empty alcohol bottles lie abandoned outside our door and the
window sills are thick with dust, blackened candle wax and covered with dark rings
left by wet tea cups. The faded curtains, shabby and soiled, hang forlornly
from makeshift curtain poles above windows so dirty with mould you can barely
see through them. I dump my pack and sit down on one of the beds in our dorm, which promptly collapses, concertinaing me between slats of wood and
musty blankets! If we didn’t laugh, we’d surely cry, for this place is grim
beyond belief, the worse mountain hut we have stayed at anywhere in the world.
To add insult to injury, there’s no beer available here, so it’s yet another
cup of black tea!</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
As it gets
dark, DG brings us a candle stuck in a beer bottle as there is no electricity
anywhere in the building except the kitchen. It’s really cold up here and thankfully
we are invited into the kitchen which is warm, lit by a bare and very dim light
bulb. A young man and woman, faces illuminated by the light of the fire, are sitting
on their haunches next to a clay oven preparing a meal of curry and plain boiled
rice. DG instantly takes up residence on a stool right next to the fire, while
we are seated on the opposite side of the room at a small table on a couple of rickety
old chairs, fabric once covering the horsehair stuffing long gone.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE">A dish of
popcorn arrives with more black tea, followed by a bowl of tasteless vegetable
soup, but hungry, I wolf it all down. The kitchen is a wretched affair with a
concrete area containing a tap, plastic bowl and a drain in a corner below a
window where the woman is now busy washing utensils which she dries and
replaces on a long shelf running along the length of one wall. Suspended above
the clay oven is a rack full of chopped firewood atop which our water proofs
have been spread out to dry. This turns out to be quite a mistake, as they
smelt like smoked kippers afterwards!! The rather bland vegetable curry, seemingly
comprised of anything that was available - potatoes, cabbage and what appear to
be cauliflower florets - arrives with a heap of plain boiled rice, a chappati
and a small bowl of watery dahl which tastes of salt and little else. Despite
my hunger, I struggle to muster much enthusiasm for this meal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span></div>
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The man and
woman are husband and wife, and have travelled up from Gorkey in the last few
days to reopen this hut for the trekking season. They will remain as caretakers
here for the next three months. A middle aged man who is sitting quietly smoking a
cigarette in another corner of the room is their friend. The hut is provisioned
only by mules, hence the lack of everything including beer up here, yet I was
surprised to hear the woman chatting on a land line telephone. It seems inexplicable that
despite the numerous checkpoints and constant bureaucracy, three days into this
trek no one had the nous to call ahead to inform this GTA-operated hut that
three people would be arriving there and to ensure there were adequate
provisions. DG informs me that on numerous occasions during his 18 years as a
guide he has arrived here to find all the beds taken and has had to sleep
outside in the open, even in the brutal cold of winter. The capacity of each
dorm could be immediately doubled if the GTA had the sense to install
bunk beds, yet complaints about the facilities and state of the hut continually
fall on deaf ears. It’s a shameful and unnecessary situation which reflects
very badly on the local authority. After a visit to the squat toilet,
which at least does not smell too much, we retire to bed. I’m glad of my sleeping bag,
as the blankets feel damp and smell musty. Martin says that the sky is crystal
clear and full of stars, and we fall asleep hopeful of another fine dawn.</div>
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<h3>
<b><i><span lang="EN-IE"><span style="color: #990000;">Day Four: Himalayan
High!</span></span></i></b></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s almost
dawn when DG knocks on the door to wake us up. We dress and follow him uphill
for around half a kilometre to the summit of Phalut (3,600m). It’s a steep
climb and I’m soon struggling for breath. I decide not to rush, preferring to
soak up the predawn atmosphere. The sky is lightening by degrees on the eastern
horizon turning the cloud nestled above some snowy peaks ahead of me pink and
apricot. Rounding a corner, I am suddenly face to face with a solitary yak
hybrid, its curved horns silhouetted against the sky. It becomes aware of my
presence, turns, eyes me, snorts, then casts its gaze once more into the
distance, seemingly standing in silent reverence to the majesty of the
mountains which are being revealed in the predawn light. It’s such a magical,
spiritual moment, a memory I shall take to the ghats.</div>
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The golden
orb of the sun suddenly pierces the horizon, bathing every blade of grass in
lurid light. Ahead of me prayer flags are fluttering around a stone structure
marking the summit. The local people believe Phalut’s peak is an omniscient god
and call it ‘Omna Re Ay’. I join Martin who is standing amid stems of bright
yellow ragwort and the dew covered foliage of lilies which must have looked
magnificent a few weeks ago. Our shadows are long and the giant outline of Phalut
is reflected on the cloud in the valley behind us like a mystic pyramid.</div>
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We stand
enthralled as the snowy peaks of the <st1:place w:st="on">Himalaya</st1:place> reveal themselves, giving us an uninterrupted view some 320 km in length. In
the far west I spot Chamlang (7,319m) rising up through veils of cloud like a square
wall of snow, then Everest, the highest mountain on Earth (8,848m) flanked on
the left by Lhotse (8,516m, the fourth highest peak) and to the right by Makalu
(8,481m, the fifth highest peak). Scanning further east I see the distinctive
peaks of the Three Sisters, then Kumbhakarna (otherwise known as Jannu), an
outlier of Kanchenjunga which formed the head of the sleeping Buddha as seen from Sandakphu. With an elevation of
7,712m it means ‘the mountain with shoulders’ and from this perspective it’s
easy to see why! A long ridge runs from it to Kanchenjunga, the main peak of
which is the highest mountain in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>. It’s about 48 km away from
Phalut as the crow flies, but looks absolutely enormous, like a white wall suspended
from the sky. We can clearly see a huge glacier on its southern flank, and its
amazing to think that the melt water from this great body of ice eventually feeds into the
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Ganges</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place>, the lifeblood of the Subcontinent
sacred to millions of Indians.</div>
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Further
east is the summit of Pandim (6,691m) and then the great Tibetan peaks of
Narsing, Dongkya, Chola and Chomolhari straddling the border between <st1:country-region w:st="on">Tibet</st1:country-region> and <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Bhutan</st1:place></st1:country-region>. In front of this incredible
backdrop are wave after wave of spiky mountain ridges in a hundred shades of
blue-grey. This uninterrupted view from <st1:country-region w:st="on">Nepal</st1:country-region>,
through <st1:country-region w:st="on">Sikkim</st1:country-region>, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Tibet</st1:country-region>, <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Bhutan</st1:place></st1:country-region>, to Arunachal Pradesh in the
east is surely the finest view in the world of this incredible mountain range.
Compensation indeed for the foul weather of the first day and, with the
exception of the first night, the lack of decent food and accommodation! DG
leaves us to savour this incredible scene. For over half an hour, we stand
mesmerised by the raw beauty of the very roof of the world, watching the
kaleidoscopic patterns created by cloud billowing about in the valleys,
revealing then obscuring hundreds of razor sharp brown pinnacles and blue-green
ridges, the nearest fringed with conifers. It feels like we have the whole
world laid out before us. Behind us, a wild horse has appeared on the hill
slope to graze, and we can see a cluster of buildings reflecting the early
morning sunshine atop the summit of Sandakphu way off the distance.</div>
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We
eventually make our way reluctantly downhill to the hut where cups of black tea
are waiting for us. Breakfast is another dull affair, with yet more chappatis
and something resembling jeera aloo along with more watery dahl. We request
some hot water to have a wash, which is taken to the wash room, a grim and
grimy concrete cubicle with a window and a tap. It would be absolute purgatory
to wash here in cold water! I am not sorry when we finally leave this dump of a
hut and hit the trail which will take us downhill the 15 km to Gorkey. </div>
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The sun is
hot on our backs as we traverse the treeless terrain giving excellent views
into the lush wooded valleys below. Patches of pretty purple flowers with circular
heads catch our attention, and we instantly recognise these as being of the
onion family. DG begs to differ, and looks surprised when we break the stem of
one and wave it under his nose. Very oniony indeed! After about 20 minutes we
come to another army checkpoint. The plainclothes young man on the gate looks
delighted to see us. We can imagine how mundane and monotonous life is up here
and our arrival is probably the most exciting thing that will happen today!
While our passports are being inspected, he asks would we like some black tea?
Having warmed to him, we accept his offer and two plastic chairs are produced
for us. He tells us that the men in this camp will serve here for a few months
before being stationed elsewhere in the NE region of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>.</div>
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The
military presence is mainly due to potential problems with secessionist
movements in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sikkim</st1:place></st1:country-region>
and Gorkhaland, and to prevent illegal cross border trade in the region. <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sikkim</st1:place></st1:country-region>, once an
independent monarchy, became the 22<sup>nd</sup> Indian state in 1975; many who
wish to see it regain its independence claim this took place under Indian
coercion. The movement for a separate state of Gorkhaland gained serious
momentum during the 1980s when violent protests were carried out by the Gorkha
National Liberation Front (GNLF). Centred in <st1:city w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:city>,
the agitation ultimately led to the establishment of a semiautonomous body in
1988 called the Darjeeling Gorkha Hill Council (DGHC) to govern certain areas
of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:place></st1:city>
district. However, in 2007 a new party called the Gorkha Janmukti Morcha (GJM) once
again raised the demand for a separate state of Gorkhaland. In 2011, the GJM
signed an agreement with the state and central governments for the formation of
Gorkhaland Territorial Administration (GTA), a semiautonomous body that
replaced the DGHC in the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:place></st1:city>
hills (and which incidentally runs the Phalut Hut…). The demands for an
independent Gorkhaland haven’t gone away, but since then an uneasy peace has
largely prevailed.</div>
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The tea
arrives after what seems an eternity but is well worth waiting for as it is
flavoured with ginger and really delicious. The heat is steadily building as we
continue down the track and we’re glad to be wearing long sleeve base layers as
our forearms got burnt during the final ascent to Phalut yesterday. We are soon
passing in and out of groves of chestnut, hemlock, rhododendron and magnolia which
offer some shade, but the humidity is relentless. Along the path we spot many
flowers in bloom including Geranium, Bistort, Senecio, several types of orchid and we stop to pick more sweet juicy raspberries. As we descend lower into the virgin
forest, thick stands of bamboo begin to line the route. Some of the moss
dappled trees are huge, bristling with parasitic ferns and the sound of insects
is almost deafening. The track is well used by mules, a team of which driven by
two young men pass us en route from Phalut to Gorkey. As a result, some
sections are very eroded and, due to the recent monsoon rains, also extremely
muddy.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just over
half way DG stops at a wooden bench for us to take a break, but there’s no
shade and the heat and humidity is relentless, so we decide to press on after
just a few minutes. The final part of the route gets progressively steeper and
the humidity higher, making trekking quite uncomfortable. At least there are no
mosquitoes about, but Martin begins to suffer from mild heat exhaustion. DG
goes on ahead to our accommodation to tell them to prepare our lunch and I
instruct him to make sure there are cold beers waiting for us! Through the
trees we eventually spot some thatched wattle houses and below them the <st1:placename w:st="on">Rammam</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype>
which forms the border with <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sikkim</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">village</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Gorkey</st1:placename></st1:place> lies in the bottom of the valley
surrounded by lush pine forests. The path down to the village through the pines
is relentlessly steep and exposed tree roots render it dangerous in places. We
take our time, finally emerging through the trees into small plots full of
paper dry maize plants. The heat is tremendous as we traverse the labyrinthine
sets of steps linking each farmstead to the village and I am wondering where on
earth our accommodation is, not wishing to spend any more time than necessary
wandering round looking for it under the fierce midday sun, when DG belatedly appears
to show us the way.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are
staying at the <i>Eden Lodge</i>, a misnamed establishment if ever there was one. We
enter a galvanised roofed building with a kitchen on one side and a low partition
dividing it from a small dining area with a wooden table almost devoid of
varnish on the other. A sense of how close we are to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Sikkim</st1:country-region></st1:place> is indicated by the calendar
on the wall bearing the image of a very distinguished looking moustached
gentleman from the Sikkim Democratic Front. DG duly produces two large bottles
of ice cold <i>Hit</i> beer brewed in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sikkim</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
What bliss after almost two days on the wagon in this heat!! A large bowl of
chow mien is quickly set in front of us which is a welcome and very pleasant
change from rice and dahl.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
A loud
crack of thunder suddenly rends the air and large drops of rain begin to hammer
on the galvanised roof of the dining room. In seconds the pathway outside is
awash with monsoon rain. I’m relieved that we’re not walking down over the
steep muddy sections of the track from Phalut in this! The rain lowers the
temperature making it far more comfortable and after consuming another bottle
of beer each, we are shown to our room in a nearby building. The good news is
that it’s en suite and carpeted, containing two single beds and a table. The
bad news is, it doesn’t look as if it has been properly cleaned for months; the
lurid blue paintwork is predictably ingrained with dirt and the hand basin is
caked in the toothpaste and congealed soap of countless other trekkers. Worse
still, the ill fitting windows have let in an enormous number of small fruit
flies whose corpses litter the table, beds and floor.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tired from
the heat and humidity and woozy from the beer, we crash and burn. We are awoken
some hours later by the sound of a generator; almost immediately the fumes from
it enter our room nearly choking us. We find DG and ask to be moved to another
room where we’re not going to risk being gassed in our sleep! It’s pitch black
when we walk up to the dining room for dinner. The rain has stopped and the air
is permeated with the sweet musty smell of damp earth mingled with the fragrance
of a joss stick stuck in a ceramic pot suspended from the eaves above the dining
room door. Black tea in ornately decorated Chinese looking cups with little lids
is served (great for keeping the omnipresent flies out!), followed by a very
tasty aloo curry and rice with chapattis. Suitably full, we retire to our room
just as the generator stops. A candle has been provided which, when lit, only
serves to attract every bloody fly in the valley! Caught by the flame, the
table is soon black with their corpses. Unable to bear the carnage any longer,
we blow it out and are soon fast asleep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<h3>
<b><i><span lang="EN-IE"><span style="color: #990000;">Day Five: The End of
the Road</span></span></i></b></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The <i>Eden
Lodge</i> is situated close to the junction of two rivers: the Rammam and a
tributary named the Gorkey Khola. The riparian settling is particularly
picturesque and serene. The sky is slightly overcast, it’s a little misty but
not particularly humid, far better conditions for trekking than those of yesterday.
A woman is busy in the kitchen rolling out small balls of dough which she pops
into a pan of boiling oil. She is making an unleavened deep-fried Indian bread
called puri. There is a small clay oven in one corner of the kitchen below a
rack full of firewood, but I notice that she is cooking on a gas stove. The puri
are served with jeera aloo, both of which are exceptionally good, naturally washed
down with the ubiquitous black tea. I am particularly struck by the brass
plates we are eating off and resolve to buy some to take home when we return to
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:place></st1:city>
later that day.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
We set off
round 8.00 am, crossing a small bridge over the Gorkey Khola before climbing
steadily up a series of steps through a stand of pine trees which brings us out
into fields planted largely with maize. Very soon we arrive at Samandeen village,
a settlement of well kept brightly painted wooden houses occupying a large
meadow in the midst of a forest which has an alpine feel to it. Indeed, the houses at this lower altitude seem to be of a better quality than those we encountered higher up. The track
skirts the village before entering dense forest interspersed with thick bamboo
groves, where it begins to descend steeply to a rushing mountain stream which
we cross by a concrete bridge. From here we face a steady uphill climb towards
Rammam. Several heavily laden teams of mules pass us en route to Gorkey and a
couple of girls neatly dressed in white uniforms hurry by on their way
to school. The humidity begins once more to take its toll, we attract a few
unwelcome leeches and I am relieved when we eventually reach Rammam village which
is sited at an altitude of 2,438m.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhXFkqQSPvF29Nu5wVMTtFbtzi5q-j7wE4EJ9g1BREYkSV1JHQy4HzvatdhqvzladVWG3onLyD1rw72zxO4TZLYFe0AP6SOgwJVUTp5DSkgaEe3sjF5NgTh3pAiOSmwA-CIBxCNxBJ27GC/s1600/Asia-213.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhXFkqQSPvF29Nu5wVMTtFbtzi5q-j7wE4EJ9g1BREYkSV1JHQy4HzvatdhqvzladVWG3onLyD1rw72zxO4TZLYFe0AP6SOgwJVUTp5DSkgaEe3sjF5NgTh3pAiOSmwA-CIBxCNxBJ27GC/s1600/Asia-213.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Entering
the school playground, we pause for a few minutes to admire the view over the
State of Sikkim which lies opposite. The forested mountain slopes are interspersed with tiny
farmsteads reached by zigzag roads surrounded by cascading terraces where farmers
grow crops such as potatoes, millet and maize. Birdsong fills the air and thin
wisps of cloud hug the tops of the mountains. On the playground wall
there is a sign exhorting the children to dispose of their rubbish in the bins
provided. This appears to have had little effect, for the trails have all been
peppered with plastic sweet, biscuit and crisp wrappers. Trekkers are
threatened with fines for dropping litter and plastic is supposedly banned, but
the problem clearly lies with the local communities.</div>
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We stop at
a Sherpa tea house at the other end of the village. DG goes to buy some coconut
biscuits and I, seated in the shade, remove my boots and socks to rest my weary
feet. Black tea is brought to us and we watch the villagers going about their
business. A woman rushes by with a stick in her hand only to reappear minutes
later loudly chastising a black dog which she is holding by the scruff of its neck. A
young boy bent double under the weight of a wicker basket full of animal fodder
flashes a smile at us, and a wizened old woman leading a cow slowly by a rope bows,
hands clasped together, as I call out ‘Namaste’ to her. DG brings an enamel pot
full of a dark cream coloured liquid with small flies swimming on its surface.
It’s fresh unpasteurised milk which we politely turn down, not wanting a bad
attack of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Delhi</st1:place></st1:city>
belly. Before we leave I visit the toilet. Prime Minister Modi has recently
made it clear that he wishes every household in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> to have access to a toilet to
consign to history the need for open defecation. With the possible exception of
Lamey Dhura, all the communities that we have passed through seem to have had
toilets, the majority of them simple squats, and those I have used have been
fairly clean by Indian standards, especially the one here at Rammam.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
After about
half an hour, we press on towards Sepi Goan which is over 9 km away and
involves a descent of over 700m. Here DG informs me a jeep will be coming to
collect us to take us back to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:place></st1:city>.
The track weaves its way past numerous Sherpa farmsteads denoted by the
coloured flags displayed outside. Many small streams cascade down from the
highlands, some obviously sacred as they have attracted prayer flags, and rock
outcrops are decorated with colourful Buddhist inscriptions. We pass an
impressive long line of white flags bearing black Tibetan script, apparently in
honour of the dead, and past umpteen clusters of houses almost subsumed by the
rampant tangle of jungle vegetation. The simple yet hard life of the Sherpa
villagers is played out in front of us: a man using a wash board to launder his
clothes at a spring; another using a whetstone to sharpen a sickle; a teenage
girl milking a cow; a young man felling a tree with an axe; a group of men and
women rushing by in golden wellie boots burdened by loads almost as long as
they are tall.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">The track now
descends very steeply towards the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Srikhola</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place> to a wooden
suspension bridge built by the British in the dying days of the Raj. Mist
begins to billow about the mountain tops and stealthily creep up the valley.
Rain is in the air. We eventually come to the swaying bridge garlanded with
coloured prayer flags enjoying the great beauty of the roaring, foaming river
with chalet type buildings more reminiscent of the Alps than the <st1:place w:st="on">Himalaya</st1:place> built above its banks. On the opposite side of
the river is a driveable road and a couple of kilometres outside Sepi Goan our jeep is waiting. It is with a great degree of relief that I
remove my pack and climb into the back seat. There is one more formality; we have
to stop in the town of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Rimbik</st1:place></st1:city>
at the final checkpoint to register that we have left the park. This completed,
we begin the three hour drive back to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Darjeeling. As with the</st1:place></st1:city> drive on the way to </span>Manebhanjan - in monsoon rains - so was our return trip to Darjeeling.</div>
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Drifting in
and out of sleep, I ruminate on the events of the last five days. We have
covered over 70 km with over 3,000m of ascent and descent, in trying
conditions. The weather certainly took its toll, and on the first day in the
monsoon downpour my spirits were so deflated I could cheerfully have turned
tail and headed back to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Darjeeling</st1:place></st1:city>.
The heat and the humidity, especially in the jungle, were sapping, and the lack
of decent food and sufficient calories left us both feeling decidedly weak at
times, which made climbing at altitude harder than it should have been. The
accommodation in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>
left much to be desired, especially the wretched hut at Phalut which was substandard
in every conceivable way. The only place we stayed at that was anywhere near adequate
was the <i>Shikar Lodge </i>in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Nepal</st1:place></st1:country-region>
on the first night. Moreover, parts of the route, such as the road to
Sandakphu, was pretty monotonous and we feel that having a guide is unnecessary and we would have been able to find the route quite easily with a map ourselves. </div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">We both
agree that this has not been our all time favourite trek, but its deficiencies
pale into insignificance when we remember the friendly and simple people we
have met along the way, whose hard lives we feel privileged to have shared, if
only for a fleeting moment. And of course, the utterly spellbinding views of </span>the mighty <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Himalaya</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place> chain and especially of Everest, at dawn. This was a life's dream which
rendered us totally speechless. I will leave the final words to Indian-American astrophysicist, Subrahmanyan Chandrasekhar, as they encapsulate our experience perfectly: </div>
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‘<i>… who
amongst us can hope, even in imagination, to scale the Everest and reach its
summit when the sky is blue and the air is still, and in the stillness of the
air survey the entire Himalayan range in the dazzling white of the snow
stretching to infinity? None of us can hope for a comparable vision of nature
and of the universe around us. But there is nothing mean or lowly in standing
in the valley below and awaiting the sun to rise over <st1:place w:st="on">Kanchenjunga</st1:place>.</i>’<br />
<br />
Watch the video at:<br />
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DE7bYJUGWv8&list=UURpKunrg0ggwy-B7BoR0hKQKernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-40429814407834573762014-08-12T11:50:00.001-07:002015-01-16T05:20:38.707-08:00A Pair of ‘Mad Swivel-eyed Cloons’?!! A 22 km Ramble in the Dunkerron Mountains, County Kerry, Ireland<div class="MsoNormal">
We hadn't long left our car by the bridge over the <st1:placename w:st="on">Owenroe</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype>
to tackle the Cloon Horseshoe, a tough circuit in the <st1:placename w:st="on">Dunkerron</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountains</st1:placetype> of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Kerry</st1:placename></st1:place>,
when a Land Rover pulled up alongside us, window wound down. ‘You’ll be well
advised to avoid that field up there’, said the farmer in a thick Kerry accent,
as he touched the brim of his check cloth cap by way of a greeting. ‘It has a bull in it you see’. We
glanced uphill in the direction he was pointing and sure enough, the buff
coloured beast in question made an appearance as if on cue. ‘Bulls are stupid
animals and can be very dangerous’, the farmer continued, shaking his head, his
swarthy face creasing into a thousand laughter lines, ‘better continue along this road by
the lake, cross a small stream beyond the farmhouse and then strike upwards
towards the ridge’. Keen to avoid an encounter with a bull ‘with attitude’, we
thank him for his kind advice as he roars off in his Land Rover with a cheery wave,
leaving us on the dirt track alongside the reed fringed shore of Cloon Lough, tiny
waves glinting in the late-morning sunshine as they lap ashore with a gentle sigh.</div>
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Soft white thistle down drifts by on the languid
breeze and becomes stuck in the nearby reeds. These are emanating from numerous
clumps of the prickly plants sporting electric mauve heads, a splash of colour
enlivening what has turned out to be a bit of a gloomy morning. But there are
signs on the western horizon that the cloud is beginning to dissipate as we
make our way through dense mats of reeds and across small streams, gaining
ground towards the Beann ridge. After just 100 metres or so of height gain, the
view over Cloon Lough with a small island at its far end which might be a crannóg,
is spread below us like an artist’s painting. Mottled sunlight dots the emerald
green slopes of Knocknacusha that rises behind it, and the faint lines of an old
boreen that disappears onto the hillside and a dirt track leading to a remote
farm house, are picked out in the glassy sunlight.</div>
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The pull up from Cloon Lough to the Beann ridge is
long and unrelenting over some steep sections reminiscent of the infamous ascent
of Maamturkmore from the ‘Col of Despondency’ in the <st1:placename w:st="on">Maamturk</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountains</st1:placetype> in <st1:place w:st="on">Galway</st1:place>.
It takes far longer than we had anticipated. Lough Eskabehy, a deep blue
spoonful of water, eventually drifts into view and on our left, the distinctive 3D
pyramid-shaped Mullaghanattin, with its compressed and contorted layers of rock
bursting through its emerald coat, is a constant companion. Beyond this
mountain, dubbed ‘the Matterhorn of Kerry’, the smoky blue peaks of the Reeks crown
the horizon. We eventually gain the summit of Beann NE Top, feasting our eyes
on the patchwork quilt of field systems in myriad shades of green which give way to bog, sweeping up
to the feet of the ridge on both sides. We debate whether to climb
Mullaghanattin, the steep slope of which rises invitingly opposite Beann NE
Top. This will add over an hour to the route we plan to take, but we decide
that it would be foolish to miss the opportunity of bagging one of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Ireland</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s
highest and most iconic mountains while this close. </div>
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The descent to the col between the two mountains is
steep and I slip, landing heavily on my bottom, as I lose my footing on a patch
of blackish vegetation which I discover is dead moss. Narrow sheep tracks
thread their way among large shelves of rock and boulders, past little bog
pools, and a fence at the top of a precipitous gully must be carefully
negotiated before the ground begins to rise steeply. We decide to stop for
lunch behind a couple of huge boulders which offer some shelter from the wind
to fire up our stove. The view down to Lough Eskabehy is magnificent.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">The day has now brightened up and hot sunshine is
streaming down on us as we begin the lung bursting climb up the steep slope of
Toblerone-shaped Mullaghanattin. The ground, although steep, is relatively benign
comprised in the main of low wiry grass, although I take care not to step on
the black patches of dead moss which I have already discovered are lethal if
trodden on! As the summit trig point eventually looms into view, a stupendous
panorama unfolds before our eyes. The Reeks, bathed in hues of pink and green,
look simply mesmerising as white fluffy clouds gambolling across an iris-blue
sky trace fantastical indigo shadows over their peaks and steep flanks. Lough
Brin, an impossibly deep shade of cobalt-blue, lies nestled in a tiny valley hemmed
in by mountains. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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It’s hard to tear ourselves away from such incredible
views, but we still have a long way to go. We rapidly descend Mullaghanattin
helped by the use of walking poles which I am discovering prove indispensible
in the more untrodden mountains of Kerry. Keeping close to a fence, we traverse
round the slopes of Beann NE Top towards the summit of Beann which is not that
much lower than Mullaghanattin. The unmarked summit point, close to the wire
fence that runs the length of the grassy ridge, is distinctly underwhelming,
but the 360 degree views more than compensate. Below is a deep valley known to locals as The Pocket, a lonely place untarnished by time and untouched by the outside
world with only a handful of old shepherds' cottages to betray the presence of people.</div>
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Besides the views of the Reeks and
the Slieve Mish mountains at our backs, the summits of the Dunkerrons towards
Coomcallee above <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Waterville</st1:place></st1:city>
are gloriously spread out to the south west, and, perched high above Cloon
Lough, we spy the diminutive reed ringed Coom Lough nestled below Beann’s sweeping green
slopes. In the distance, Lough Reagh, gleaming mercury grey in the glassy
sunlight, a small river spilling from it like a thin silver serpent, is nestled
below the forbidding dark cliffs of Coolyvack. In the valley, an olive green
bog spreads out like an immense blanket broken only by several vividly surreal green
rectangles of enclosed fields close to the lough shore. Huge shafts of light
stream down from amid breaks in the cloud to illuminate the rocky slopes
leading towards Finnararagh.</div>
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Mindful of the time, we eschew the climb down to bag
Beann South Top and instead continue along the ridge. This involves some steep
descents alongside the wire fence to a couple of cols over stony, eroded ground
where it is occasionally hard to keep your footing. Eventually, after passing across
undulating grassy and peaty terrain over Beann SW Top and Beann Far SW Top, the
ground rises steeply amid numerous rocky outcrops towards Sallagh. <st1:placename w:st="on">Kenmare</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Bay</st1:placetype>
shimmers blue to my left, beyond which lie the hazy outlines of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Caha</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountains</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
Staring into the sun, I am almost blinded by the light reflecting off Lough
Reagh and can just make out a sinuous ridge of bare rock stretching towards
Finnararagh. Hogging the horizon are a veritable army of smoky blue peaks
receding in tumultuous waves until the very <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic Ocean</st1:place>,
where the spear shaped Skelligs rise.</div>
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From the nondescript grassy summit of Sallagh, the
ground drops and rises steeply towards Finnararagh. In the glare of the sun,
now low in the sky, I can just about discern the deep blue shapes of lakes barely
visible amid contorted ledges of rock above the precipitous headwalls at Coolyvack.
The landscape is rough, wild, almost elemental around here and we must pass through
a veritable maze of huge boulders perched at seemingly impossible angles, left
stranded by the retreat of glaciers eons ago. I am distracted by the mysterious
Lough Coomeen lying in the rocky crook of Finnararagh’s eastern arm, the
diminutive Lough Sallagh it’s baby brother just below, and my foot plunges down
suddenly and dramatically through the wiry heather between two boulders. This
is a timely reminder of the need to pay attention to avoid a sure lower leg injury
as we weave our way towards the base of a huge shelf of bare rock. Martin’s
figure seems diminutive as he begins his ascent over the grey rock tinged pink by
the warm sunshine of early evening.</div>
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We then climb a smallish scree slope, the loose rock
making strange percussive noises beneath our boots, before one last brief pull
up to the summit of Finnararagh, where we are rewarded with views to die for. Spread
below is a face slapping landscape of deep blue lakes, dusky valleys and olive
green bogs, hemmed in by clusters of purple mountains all around. The sinuous
ridge from Beann over Sallagh to the point where we are standing is picked out
in the warm tones of the sinking sun, deep shadows running away down the ridge
to the east. No wonder <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Kerry</st1:placename></st1:place> is called The
Kingdom, for it is truly majestic.</div>
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We descend Finnararagh to find the terrain easier
going as we emerge onto a high plateau covered with large tracts of bog grass.
There are some eroded hags and patches of bog to negotiate in the col before
the ground starts to climb steadily towards the summit of Coomnacronia. Looking
back, the rock comprising Finnararagh glows rosy pink in the setting sun and <st1:placename w:st="on">Kenmare</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Bay</st1:placetype>
and the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Caha</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountains</st1:placetype></st1:place> are bathed in soft
violet light. The wind has dropped and the fading light has snatched away any
views of Coomloughla Lough and surrounding lakes, while Loughs Coomnacronia and
Eagles are tucked away out of view in their rocky cirques far below. Straight ahead we can
see the sun, a saffron yellow sphere, beginning to sink just to the left of the
steep line of Knockmoyle’s NE slope. Beyond, in various shades of sepia, are
the tops of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Glenbeigh</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountains</st1:placetype></st1:place>.</div>
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Clambering over a high wire fence, we arrive at the
small summit cairn on Coomnacronia to witness the final rays of the sun fan out
like the tail feathers of a giant bird over the top of Knockmoyle, turning the surrounding
sky a deep apricot. The clouds above <st1:placename w:st="on">Kenmare</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Bay</st1:placetype> blush marshmallow pink fringed
with smoky grey and the <st1:placename w:st="on">Caha</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountains</st1:placetype> and crooked finger of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Beara</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Peninsula</st1:placetype></st1:place>
fade to a deep purple. Above this scene of immense grandeur, a creamy coloured half
moon hangs majestically. </div>
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We now set out briskly for our final summit, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Coomura</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place>, with its distinctive ice
scoured northern flank. The light is fading fast and the terrain is peppered
with rocks and bog, making progress slower than we would have wished. I am now
resigned to the fact that that the descent from Coomura will be in total
darkness. After a long slog, we enter a boggy bowl enclosed by the desolate
dark shapes of rocky ridges, to begin our ascent of the mountain. Dozens of
small bog pools reflect the chilled mercury of moonlight which gives just enough
light to see by. The bog soon eases, the ground is grassier and we now
climb quite rapidly. The cold becomes intense and a chill wind wraps wrath-like
fingers round my neck as we find our way to the summit on the domed top of
Coomura. Far below we can see tiny pinpoints of light that mark solitary
farmhouses.</div>
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The moon is low in the sky as we leave the summit donning our head torches. Knowing that Coomura is surrounded by dramatic cliffs
and steep ground, Martin is careful to take an accurate compass bearing to pace
out a safe route down a grassy north-eastern spur. Yet more peat hags are soon encountered,
which cause us to weave our way round these obstacles making accurate pacing testing. His navigation is spot on and having safely avoided the cliffs, we begin climbing down to the col between Coomura
and Knocknacusha.</div>
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Anyone who thinks that a quick descent can be made to
Cloon Lough from Coomura is seriously mistaken. You must traverse huge shelves
of rocks with vertical drops; small streams clogged with boot-sucking bog lie
between these and the flatter areas further down are dense with thigh high grass
and rushes. It’s agonisingly slow even in daylight, and we are about to attempt
this in the dark!</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">The crimson tinged moon is setting and the dew brings
out the intense fragrance of the bog. Darkness is now complete and the magnificent
Milky Way shimmering over our heads and occasional shooting star, part of the annual
Perseid meteor shower, provide welcome distractions from the monotony of endless
rocky shelves and umpteen obstacles, which cause us to repeatedly retrace our
steps. We try and keep to the rocky ridges as much as possible to avoid becoming
entrapped in shin deep patches of bog, thankful that the rock provides a good
grip. The solitude is intense, the only sounds, my laboured breathing and the vegetation
tearing under our boots. I can scarcely believe we are doing this, what a pair
of ‘mad, swivel-eyed Cloons’!!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">After what seems like an eternity, we meet the
Glasheenoerreen Stream and follow this down to pick up the old boreen we had
seen from the Beann ridge at the start of our walk. We trudge wearily across wretched
areas of waterlogged ground with Okavango-like waist high wet grass, more than
once tripping over alder saplings tangled amid it. To compound matters, deep
drainage ditches partially concealed by this lush vegetation lie in wait to
trap an unwary leg or ankle. This energy sapping terrain finally gives way to patches
of chest high bracken and prickly gorse and we know we must be close to the
boreen as we encounter old stone hedges that once enclosed fields.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">I can’t begin to describe the relief as we eventually hit
this old track, almost grown in with gorse and bracken and covered with patches
of slimy bog. Energised, we instantly pick up speed, crossing an old bridge
formed of huge stone slabs over a rushing river and through a ruined enclosure,
where we suddenly run into an electric fence. I stop abruptly. Beneath my feet,
the muddy ground bears all the hallmarks of having been recently churned up by a
very large animal. I hope that we have not unwittingly stumbled upon the
enclosure of a ‘stupid and dangerous’ bull! One quick sweep of my head torch
reveals no sign of such a beast but nonetheless, I move with lightening speed across the field
to scramble under the electric fence the other side.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Thankfully, the track improves after we pass through a
metal gate leading to a sheep enclosure and an old farm yard. Very soon we are moving
quickly along an undulating gravel track above the dark waters of Cloon Lough. Every
so often, the beam from my head torch picks out the florescent-green eyes of
sheep lying amid the rushes, who run off in panic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">To say that I am relieved to see the number plate of
our car gleaming in the darkness ahead of me is an understatement. It is around
2.00 am when I finally remove my boots to free my weary feet steaming with perspiration, after
around 15 hours on the hills. Famished, we fire up the stove for a hot meal. Never
before has a packet of beef stew and dumplings, washed down with an Irish red ale
fortuitously found tucked away in the boot of the car, tasted so good! <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span></div>
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Anyone contemplating this route is well advised to allow
plenty of time (even though the hours we took is reflected in the fact that we spent ages shooting film which considerably lengthened the time
it took). The nature of the terrain - trackless, rough,
wild and very varied – can quickly sap your energy and distances that on a map
seem quite manageable are much further than they appear out on these hills, due
to the unrelentingly tough ground. This is probably as near to wilderness as
you will encounter in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Ireland</st1:place></st1:country-region>
and unsurprisingly, apart from the friendly farmer at the start of our walk, we did not meet or see a soul the entire day. Nonetheless, do
not let that put you off what is quite possibly one of the finest horseshoe
walks in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region> with
scenery that you will surely take to the <st1:place w:st="on">Ghats</st1:place>.
It is a superb challenge that you are unlikely to forget in a hurry.</div>
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Scenes from this walk appear in our video 'Hillwalking in County Kerry'. Watch it at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iiovo-tLcp0</div>
Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-83277739830025375912014-07-31T15:34:00.003-07:002015-01-16T06:49:24.573-08:00A 32km Mountain Traverse and Overnight Bivvy in County Kerry, Ireland<div class="MsoNormal">
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<h3>
Day One</h3>
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The smell of summer flowers, damp earth and wood smoke waft
in through the open window of our B&B. It’s early morning and we’re
preparing our kit for a two day traverse of the <st1:placename w:st="on">Mangerton</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountains</st1:placetype> in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Kerry</st1:placename></st1:place>.
The day doesn’t appear to hold much promise; the tops of the nearby hills are
shrouded in a line of thick mist, but this is typical of <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region> and we
are hopeful that it will burn off as the sun climbs higher.</div>
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After a hearty full Irish breakfast, we drive to the end of
a minor road off the Glenflesk to Lough Guitane road where we seek permission
from the owner of a small farmhouse to leave our car overnight. A young amenable chap, he’s more than happy for us to park our car in his yard and eyed
by his two friendly dogs, we don our backpacks and take the stony boreen uphill
through trees behind the farmhouse, past some cowsheds and onto the open
mountainside. Our kit (sleeping bags, mats, pillows, bivvy sacks, stove, gas,
pans, food for 2 days, sundries and water) packed into Osprey Alpine packs, feels
heavy, but the temperature is being kind to us even if the mist is obscuring Cruachán,
our first summit.</div>
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There’s something incredibly soulful about a damp and misty
Irish morn. The landscape is somewhere around 100 shades of emerald green; the
nearby furze bushes are silvered with the delicate webs of myriad spiders;
little drops of water hang like diamonds from the wire fence alongside the
boreen and gleam on the prickly leaves and electric mauve heads of thistles,
harbingers of high summer. The air is almost still, the silence broken only by
the occasional lowing of cattle.<br />
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As we gain height, the tear drop shaped Lough Guitane drifts
into view, mirror-like below a jumble of old stone walled potato plots now
choked with bracken. Beyond its southern shoreline, the ground climbs steeply
and is incised by a pair of long narrow valleys, obscured by churning mist. Periodically,
the mist shifts enough to afford a glimpse of Bennaunmore, a sharp fin of rock
rising steeply between the two valleys. It is one of the summits we will assail.
We climb steadily for about two and a half kilometres up the stony boreen which
zig-zags up the side of the mountain before suddenly petering out. The ground
is now boggy in places, with standing pools of brackish water, and slightly
higher up, is interspersed with boulders and strewn with bleached heather
stems, the tell-tale scars of a past fire. The climb to the summit is perhaps
the steepest section over tussocky grass, and we have no view at all as we
arrive at Cruachán’s rocky summit with its scattered batteries from a long
defunct TV deflector.</div>
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The wind has picked up significantly and wet with sweat, we
feel chilly as we pause for a snack. We decide not to tarry for too long and
after taking a quick compass bearing, begin our steep descent towards Cruachán SW top. As we descend past a strange standing stone which we speculate might bear the eroded traces of ogham script, the mist begins to lift revealing a green and rugged
landscape with the inky blue crests of mountains on the horizon and the patchwork
quilt of field systems connected to the white and ochre coloured dots of farmhouses
in the valley bottoms. Far below is <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Crohane</st1:placename></st1:place>, a thin ribbon of
grey-blue water. Up valley from this lies the diminutive Lough Nabrean, then
the much larger Lough Guitane and beyond this, the vast expanse of Lough Leane
and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Muckross</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place>, dotted with islands and gleaming
pale blue under the leaden sky. The town of <st1:city w:st="on">Killarney</st1:city> lies sprawled on the flat farmland
to the east of the lakes, one of its towering church steeples clearly visible.</div>
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After attaining the pretty nondescript summit of Cruachán SW
top, we begin a steep descent westwards, hand-railing a fence for part of the
way before dropping down into a gully to the classic
V-shaped Nabroda Valley just north of the lough of the same name. The landscape
here is different, the lower slopes of Bennaunmore are characterised by long
scree slopes of tumbled down hexagonal shaped boulders of rhyolite, an igneous
rock of volcanic derivation. The upper reaches of the mountain are comprised of
vertical cliffs which resemble a collection of enormous organ pipes. The
mountain is in fact a volcanic plug, sat amid the remnants of a crater formed
during a phase of volcanic activity in the Devonian period. These rhyolite
columns are Kerry’s version of the <st1:place w:st="on">Giant’s Causeway</st1:place>
in Antrim. </div>
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Here seems an ideal place to stop for lunch and we fire up
our stove, taking water from Lough Nabroda. The sun is hot on my shoulders as I
take in the surroundings. There seems to be a faint pathway running through the
bottom of this now desolate valley, which I later learn was used in former
times as a short cut from the Glenflesk and Sliabh Luachra area to Kilgarvan
and Kenmare to the south. This valley lay in the territory of the O’Donoghue
clan, who held sway here despite the dispossessions following the <st1:city w:st="on">Battle</st1:city> of the <st1:place w:st="on">Boyne</st1:place>, the
English too afraid to take them on after they had meted out their brand of
justice to unwelcome settlers in the area.</div>
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After a tasty lunch of Thai curry and noodles, we commence
the incredibly steep 175m climb up a narrow gully that leads almost to the
summit of Bennaunmore. This ascent averages about 59 percent but the steepest
parts are more like 185 percent or 60 degrees and great care is needed to keep
our footing, especially as we are carrying heavy backpacks making it hard to
maintain our balance. One slip here would be serious and we pick our way slowly
upwards, stopping occasionally to enjoy views of the deep blue Lough Nabroda
nestled in the bottom of the valley, with <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Crohane</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place>
beyond making an appearance as we gain height. I enjoy the challenge of the
climb but am somewhat relieved when the gradient levels and we reach a saddle
below the rocky crown that is the summit.</div>
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We dump our packs and make the short steep climb up to it,
where we are rewarded with magnificent scenery to the north west over the
brilliantly blue Lough Guitane, <st1:placename w:st="on">Muckross</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype> and Lough Leane, with the smoky grey
summits of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Slieve</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Mish</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountains</st1:placetype></st1:place>
piercing a white, even bank of thick cloud in the far distance. Below, the
serpentine coils of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Cappagh</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place> twist and turn through
sandy spits past the intense blue ribbon of Lough Nabrean towards Lough Guitane;
ahead lie the two summits of Stoompa and beyond them, the massive brown plateau
of Mangerton.</div>
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It is with some reluctance that we finally tear ourselves
away from the ravishing scenery to begin the steep descent from Bennaunmore to the
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Cappagh</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place>. The scenery now changes
dramatically, grassy slopes giving way to a chaotic jumble of boulders and
vertical cliffs. This is ankle breaking territory and we carefully pick our way
down a steep gully taking care not to fall into one of the numerous deep holes obscured
by thick carpets of moss and heather that lie between the boulders. The valley
bottom does not appear to be getting any closer, and it is impossible to make
much speed. But why would you want to, when there is so much to see and savour?</div>
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A tributary of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Cappagh</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
fed by Lough Fineen too high to be visible, has carved a small valley that
joins the Cappagh at right angles. The valley is filled with a strange
splendour, lush and verdant and densely wooded in places, its broad bottom
carpeted with reeds and bracken, criss-crossed by the tracks of deer who graze
here.</div>
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We finally pass out of the interminable boulder field to
emerge into thigh high whispering rushes. Across the valley, a lone deer lifts
its head to eye us suspiciously before taking fright and vanishing into the reeds.
We are drawn towards the slow sound of the water running in the river which we
must cross. We seem to have entered another world, one where time could easily
stand still. The solitude is intense. Picking our way across the tops of
exposed boulders, we safely traverse the brown waters of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Cappagh</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place>
and enter a grove of ancient oak trees, boughs gnarled and bedecked in thick emerald
moss. The air has become hot and stuffy and the humidity has drawn clouds of
midges from the boggy ground which proceed to torment us with their incessant
bites. </div>
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We begin the long climb out of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Cappagh</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>
following the north bank of the small tributary obscured by dense foliage which
tumbles noisily down over a series of boulders. We eventually pass out of the
oak grove and catch sight of a number of waterfalls throwing up columns of fine
spray as they cascade over the jagged cliffs from Lough Fineen high on the
plateau above. As we climb higher, their strident hiss seems to fill this
little valley with sound. Near the top of the valley we stop close to a pool of
clear water fed by a small stream. I sit on a sun warmed smooth grey boulder and
pick a number of ticks off my trousers. The sight of the water cascading down
over the rocks in a shower of crystal droplets is relaxing, while the proximity
to the rushing water has a cooling effect and I soon feel refreshed. We decide
to replenish our water supply here in case we encounter no water higher up
where we intend to bivvy for the night.</div>
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Leaving this delightful little stream, we now turn NW
towards Stoompa East top across steadily rising boggy and tussocky ground which
begins to sap our energy. But the views back over the way we had journeyed, of
the summits we had surmounted glowing in the warm rich colours of early evening,
lift our spirits. A short steep pull brings us to the flat and featureless
boggy summit of Stoompa East top, marked by a small pile of rocks. We quickly press
on towards Stoompa, where we select a bivvy spot for the night just below and
east of the summit where the ground is fairly dry and level and which offers
some shelter from the wind.</div>
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The wind begins to drop as the sun, now low in the western
sky, casts huge shafts of golden light onto Lough Leane from a brilliant orange
gap amid a churning mass of grey and white cloud. Shehy and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Tomies</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountains</st1:placetype></st1:place>
look enormous and unnaturally close, silhouetted against this burnished sky. To
the east, the summit of Cruachán blushes rose pink in the last rays of sunlight
and beyond, the grey green twin peaks of the Paps crown the distant horizon,
their tops almost touching a pillow of soft apricot cloud. Even further away to
the SE, the TV mast atop Mullaghanish pierces a thin strip of blue sky.</div>
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Then suddenly, a stealthy mist begins to blow in from the
sea and the cloud quickly descends, enveloping the landscape in a white silent
shroud. As dusk begins to fall, we gather the stems of dead heather to light a
small fire. The fragrant smoke instantly banishes the midges and in silence we
crouch next to it, eyes fixed on the flickering flames, each lost in our own
thoughts. Knowing we have this mountain to ourselves for the night fills
me with unbridled feelings of freedom and elation. Belly full after a warming
meal of chicken korma and noodles, sleepiness washes over me in waves and I am
grateful to climb into my sleeping bag. I fall asleep inside my bivvy bag to
the gentle sound of the wind playing across the open heath.<br />
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<h3>
Day Two</h3>
I am awakened by the soft and intermittent patter of light
rain on my bivvy bag. By the time I poke my head out, the sun has risen behind
a bank of grey cloud, casting a glassy glare across the entire sky. The peat
covered summit of Stoompa East top is clear, but masses of luminescent white
cloud is boiling up through the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Cappagh</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>, obscuring Cruachán and the hills beyond. Martin brings me a welcome mug of coffee but we decide to
forego breakfast until we source more water to make our porridge. Breaking
camp, we head upslope to Stoompa. The cloud begins to lift, revealing Lough
Fineen nestled in a boggy bowl below. As we climb higher, the gaping chasm of
the Horses Glen and a vast panorama of towering pink-grey sandstone walls mottled
with sunlight below Glenacappul Top and Mangerton North Top, lightly brushed by
wisps of cloud, loom into view. Opposite Mangerton lies in wait, its broad brown
expanse cracked like pie crust.<br />
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Stoompa boasts magnificent scenery over Lough Leane and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Muckross</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place>. The castle at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Ross</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Island</st1:placename></st1:place>,
gleaming in the feeble morning sunshine, pokes out above the densely forested surrounding
demesne, and the pebbly limestone beach on the lake shore where we were
inspecting Bronze Age copper mines back in the spring dazzles white. Below us,
the inky blue glacial corrie of Lough Erhogh has revealed itself, and, as we
descend Stoompa to begin a spectacular traverse around the eastern and southern
rims of the Horses Glen, we see that it is in fact a hanging lake from which
the Owengarriff River spills into Lough Managh below, which in turn feeds the much
larger Loch Garagarry. Care is needed as the winding pathway is badly eroded in
places and threads its way very close to precipitous drops into the gaping glen.<br />
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The route then meanders away from the corrie rim for a short
distance which takes us past a rushing mountain stream. The perfect place to
top up our water bladders and boil some water to make our porridge, after which
we continue upwards across a boggy slope and arrive once more at the track way
along the rim of the Horses Glen. There are fine views back towards Stoompa and
down into Lough Erhogh, which now lies at right angles to Lough Managh. Before
long, the stony path brings us onto a flatter area and the Devil’s Punch Bowl, shining
like a spoonful of liquid mercury, floats into view. The towering smoky grey
peaks of Macgillycuddy’s Reeks heaped on the horizon and Lough Leane spread
like a giant mirror, form a dramatic backdrop.<br />
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We pass a small cairn of stones marking a descent towards
the Punch Bowl as tiny drops of rain begin to fall from a leaden sky. Mist
begins churning into a series of extraordinary and contorted shapes, as if
seeking to escape the top of the Horses Glen, and in no time at all we are cut
off in a silent white fog. As we approach a larger stone cairn, figures loom
out of the gloom ahead of us: two German women, panting and elated to have
reached what they believe to be the summit of Mangerton. We exchange
pleasantries and they ask if we would be kind enough to capture this moment of
glory on their iphones. We watch them proceed on their way, chatting loudly and
laughing. One would think they had conquered Everest. We, meanwhile, strike out
across the eroded bog, peat hags looking enormous in the mist, towards the trig
point which marks the true and very nondescript summit of Mangerton.</div>
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The mist has completely lifted as we leave the peat hags behind and
pass down a long grassy slope. The going is now much easier. The views of the
mountains we have already climbed have vanished, blocked from view by the
enormous mass that is Mangerton. But by way of compensation, the north western
horizon is literally crammed with dozens of smoky blue peaks, including
Macgillycuddy’s Reeks and the Dunkerrons. Closer still, <st1:placename w:st="on">Purple</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype> is separated from the Reeks
by a deep gash which is the Gap of Dunloe, while <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Kenmare</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Bay</st1:placetype></st1:place>
appears as a sliver of silver to the south.</div>
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The benign terrain is short lived and we are soon passing
across rocky and sodden ground as we head towards Dromeralough NE Top. From its
summit we can see Dromeralough which is just over a kilometre away, but getting
across a bleak expanse of olive green bog and rocky knolls, the hollows between
them home to a multitude of small lakes and pools whose ragged shorelines we
must laboriously weave around, takes time. We pause by one of these lakes,
choked with bog bean, for yet another feast of curry and noddles before making
the ascent to Dromeralough, marked by a small cairn of rocks.<br />
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Similar ground is encountered on the traverse to Knockbrack,
one of the more curious sights being glacial erratics stranded high on huge
shelves of rock. We pass many pretty lakes choked with weed and fringed with
brilliant white heads of bog cotton which nod joyously in the wind. The summit
of Knockbrack provides stunning views to the southwest over the Shehy and Caha
Mountains and down towards the Beara Peninsula in neighbouring Cork, the
blade-shaped Kenmare Bay slicing right through the landscape almost to the very
feet of the mountains.</div>
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We can see the final summit, Knockrower from here, but
decide not to take the direct route past Lough Nambrackdarrig in order to avoid
what looks like tussocky grass and boot sucking bog, and instead almost double
back the way we had come, keeping to the high ground. The summit is marked by a
large boulder, another erratic, which makes a perfect seat to view the
magnificent landscape and to contemplate the traverse we had now almost
completed. Muckross Lake appears as a triangle of blue between Torc and Purple Mountains with the
island speckled Upper Lake below them, beyond which are the incredible peaks of
the Reeks and Dunkerrons, stretching away almost for as far as the eye can see.
Particularly prevalent is the pyramid shaped Mullaghanattin, which Richard
Mersey in his <i>Hills of Cork and Kerry</i>,
refers to as ‘the Matterhorn of Kerry’. To the southwest, I spot the
characteristic top of Cnoc Bólais on <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Dursey</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Island</st1:placetype></st1:place> and farther out to
sea, the jagged canine shaped Bull Rock.<br />
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Thoughts inevitably shift to the descent from the summit and
we are hopeful that we will not experience the same terrain as on our descent yesterday
from Bennaunmore. As it happens, the route turns out to be quite easy, the
higher slopes being a mixture of very low heather and bilberry with boulders
that are easily navigated. This gives way to lush long grass interspersed with
bracken as we approach an old boreen running through the valley below. We
follow this southward for about two kilometres, losing it occasionally in
places where it has been swallowed by the bog. The route is delightful, passing
close to <st1:placename w:st="on">Cummmeenslaun</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype>, grand views of the rocky slopes of
Knockanaguish and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Peakeen</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place> filling our line
of vision. A number of crumbling stone cottages built into the bank of the
boreen and abandoned in the famine, are a reminder of how much more populated
this corner of the island once was.<br />
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Eventually the boreen joins an unsealed track lined with deep
purple thistles and ragged reeds which passes through a valley with forestry
sweeping down from Coombane almost to the Cummeenboy Stream. Startled sheep
flee in all directions. We pass through a farm yard and onto a narrow sealed
road, hedgerows bursting with the mid-summer fragrance and colours of meadow
sweet, dog rose and honeysuckle, past fields where brown and white cows are grazing.
Eventually we arrive at a quiet cross roads where the road meets the old
Kenmare road and the <st1:street w:st="on">Kerry Way</st1:street>.
Here we call for a taxi from Kenmare to take us back to Glenflesk to collect
our car.<br />
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As the taxi arrives, it is with a mixture of relief and regret
that I sink into the comfortable back seat. This had been one of the most challenging,
yet at the same time most enjoyable, multi-day treks we have undertaken across
one of Ireland’s most impressive and scenic mountain ranges. Apart from the
pathway above the Devil’s Punchbowl, we didn’t see a soul for two days and the
route is wild, largely unspoilt and offers a real test of endurance, crossing
as it does such varied, and at times, tricky terrain. </div>
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Everyone has heard of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Kerry</st1:placename></st1:place>:
its lakes, towns and villages, mountains, beaches and coastline are chocolate
box pretty. But while people may argue over their favourite part of this
island, everyone genuflects to the picture-perfect landscape that is the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Kingdom</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Kerry</st1:placename></st1:place>. If you don’t believe me, go and
walk the Mangertons and see for yourself.<br />
<br />
Scenes from this hike appear in the video 'Hillwalking in County Kerry, Ireland'. <br />
Watch it on Vimeo: vimeo.com/102921209Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-79472079006120597272014-07-16T16:18:00.003-07:002015-02-19T15:14:53.362-08:00Way Out West: The Atlantic Islands of County Mayo, Ireland<h3>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #990000;">Inishark: Place of Melancholic Beauty</span></span></h3>
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Rain pours
out of a leaden sky and lashes the car windscreen unrelentingly as we head for Roonagh
Pier one morning in early July. The weather forecast for the day is typically
ambiguous - ‘sunshine and showers’ – an oft quoted prediction for the West of
Ireland where the weather is notoriously fickle and where it’s possible to have
four seasons of weather all in one day. Undaunted, we press ahead with our
plans regardless of the weather forecast, meeting up with several friends of a
hill walking group who are gathered at the pier. We have chartered a boat from
the Clare Island Ferry Company to take us to three islands: Inishark, Inishturk
and Achillbeg, where we plan to climb their highest points.</div>
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We put to
sea in the <i>Very Likely</i>; she’s an old
boat, but she rolls smoothly across the petrol blue waters past the smoky crests
of distant mountains clustered beneath a glassy blue sky with large, scurrying grey
and white clouds. We glide past <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Clare</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Island</st1:placename></st1:place> then head toward
open seas where the inky blue hump of Inishbofin is periodically inflamed by
golden rays of sunlight. Squally showers are quickly followed by hot sunshine.
The air is warm and salt laden and many of us enjoy sitting on the deck of the
boat as we speed towards Inishark, our first island. Nine miles from the Mayo coast,
it bears the traces of thousands of years of habitation, each successive wave
of settlement and abandonment imprinted on the landscape in the form of prehistoric
hut sites and field systems, medieval Christian monastic ruins and small stone cottages
and enclosures.<br />
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However, Shark’s
exposure to vicious Atlantic storms, meaning no one could land on the island
for weeks on end, combined with the tragic drowning of three young men, finally
convinced the Irish government to evacuate the remaining residents of this
isolated fishing and farming outpost. With no electricity, telephones or
running water, and no resident doctor or priest, there was a limit to the
islanders’ self-sufficiency and resolve in the face of continual hardships and
tragedy. Worn down by witnessing the very lifeblood of their community ebb away
in successive bouts of famine, sickness, economic depression, drownings and years
of emigration, the last two dozen inhabitants closed the doors of their
respective home-places forever in October 1960 and, with all of their worldly
possessions and livestock, departed in a flotilla of boats and curaghs, most
bound for the mainland. Their story has been told in the 2006 Irish language
film, <i>Inis Airc, Bás Oileáin</i>
(Inishark, Death of an <st1:place w:st="on">Island</st1:place>).</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Today the
seas are relatively calm. Nevertheless, we stop briefly at Inishbofin to
collect a man who knows these waters and who carefully guides us towards Inishark’s
old landing place, a tricky spot to navigate on account of submerged rocks
which get shifted about in the frequent Atlantic storms. We soon spot the abandoned cottages
clustered below the face of the hill called Cnocán Leo, the roofs of many long
gone. Their stone walls are quietly shedding their outer render and crumbling away to
be reclaimed by the earth. The landing place cannot possibly be
described as a harbour, as it is so exposed and disembarkation is impossible on
all but the calmest days. Once ashore, the hardship that those who lived here
endured can be sensed in a storm damaged memorial near the landing place and
the rusting winches atop its concrete slipway. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Half a
century has passed by since the last islanders lived here and everything is
eerily silent save for the song of the Skylark and the constant chatter of the
Wheatear. Wandering amid the nettle choked ruins of the old homesteads which
formerly reverberated with the sounds of family life, I try to imagine the conversations
that took place at the cold and lifeless fireplaces that once glowed with the welcome
warmth of turf embers. What triumphs and tragedies were delivered on the
families who dwelt beneath these exposed rafters, bare and pointing skywards like
ribs of a dead beast? Wakes, weddings, births… And of the countless eyes that stared
out from now glassless windows towards the <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic</st1:place>,
endlessly scanning the ocean for signs of changing weather patterns and steeling
themselves at the sight of oft tempestuous waves. For the <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic</st1:place>
was both life-sustaining and life-taking, and to which the fates of the islanders were inextricably bound. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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I wander up
to a large rectangular building, St. Leo’s Church, dating to the medieval
period, betrayed by the crudely fashioned concrete crosses that grace the gable
ends of the building, roofless and open to the sky. Now surrounded by thistles,
it is named for the island’s patron saint, Leo of Inis Airc, who lived here
some time between the sixth and eighth centuries. It cuts a forlorn presence at
the heart of the old village. I pass through the doorless entrance opposite the
crumbling altar. On a wall nearby is a memorial erected by surviving islanders
to their kinsmen who were evacuated. Four family names - Lacey, Murray, Cloonan
and Gavin - predominate. In such a small and close knit community, every
tragedy would have been hard felt indeed.</div>
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I wander on
through the village past the school house and cottages with little porches, whose
slates lie in a chaotic jumble on sagging roofs and along an old boreen right
above the <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic</st1:place>. Now choked with weeds and
muddy in places, it’s lined by broken down field hedges. Behind these lie the grass
covered parallel ridges of lazy beds in what were once lovingly tended plots, verdant
with the foliage of life-giving potatoes. I imagine the collective toil of many
generations to make these tiny plots fertile, the countless loads of seaweed
gathered and hauled from the nearby beaches to enrich the soil. There is a deep
melancholy in the sight of sheep now freely roaming these old fields. As I pass
along the boreen towards the open ground in the direction of the island’s
summit, I am accompanied by a Wheatear who flits from stone to stone, raising
its tail up and down as it chatters furiously as if to chastise me for daring
to disturb its solitude.</div>
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As I gain
ground, I delight in the sudden whoosh of feathers as I am buzzed by a pair of Great
Skuas, who have probably made their burrows on the rough moorland hereabouts. They
follow me all the way to the triangular summit trig point. Here, I feast my
eyes on 360 degree eye candy: Achill Island and nearby Inishbofin; far in the
distance, the conical hulk of Croagh Patrick; mighty Mweelrea, the inky peaks
of the Twelve Bens and everywhere, the endless deep blue expanse of the
restless Atlantic.</div>
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From the
summit a small group of us set out to explore the western side of the island. Here,
a large tract of brown bog provided the only regular source of turf for the
islanders; the rectangular stone outlines of turf racks may still be seen. This
part of the island is unenclosed and seems ten times more timeless, wild and
rugged than the southern side. The <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic</st1:place>
has bitten the western cliffs into sharp, narrow coves and created many
magnificent palisades. Sheep teeter precariously at the very edge of
vertiginous drops below which the cold Atlantic waters are churned into a
foaming milky surf as waves crash onto the rocks below. Here and there, vivid
patches of saffron lichen clinging obstinately to grey rock and pillows of pale
sea pinks contrast delightfully with the aqua sea.</div>
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Inishark is
home to Gannets, Guillemots, Arctic terns, Red-billed oystercatchers and
Fulmars, nesting in great profusion on the island’s cliffs. The screaming of
nesting and circling seabirds is deafening. We watch the antics of a diving
seal, who bobs about in the churning surf below, raising its head every few
minutes to fix us with its large, doe-like eyes.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">Recrossing the bog, we pick up a boreen and turn inland towards Cnocán Leo and
the abandoned village. The sky is darkening as we pass by the old cemetery where
the former inhabitants of the island slumber in their eternal resting place on
a promontory above the harbour. As we board the boat, the sky is an ominous
battleship grey, yet the sun is glaring down on Cnocán Leo making everything in
the landscape appear unnaturally close and finely etched. As we put to sea,
huge raindrops begin to fall, sending us scurrying for shelter in the cabin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<h3>
<span style="color: #990000;">Inishturk: The Whelk Pickers </span></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE">The boat
pitches and rolls its way towards Inishbofin, where we deposit the islander who
guided us to Inishark, and on towards Inishturk, our next destination. Every so
often it literally teems with rain and those not wishing to be crammed
together in the cramped cabin, sit hunched on the deck of the boat braving the
diesel fumes from the boat’s exhaust, GoreTex clothing dripping and gleaming
wet in the glassy light. The showers soon pass and the sun once more streams
down from a cornflower blue sky. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span>
Before long we spot the grey outline of
Inishturk, which appears to be far more rocky than Inishark. A thin ribbon of
cottages hugs the shoreline of the island as we approach the harbour on its
south eastern side. Here fishing boats from as far away as <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Cork</st1:place></st1:city> are moored. This island is inhabited,
although you could be forgiven for thinking so, as all is unsettlingly quiet as we disembark
and walk along the road that leads inland from the harbour, past single storey
cottages with lobster pots piled high against whitewashed walls and the somewhat
out of place modern building which is the health centre. Only the sheep stir in
their paddocks. There isn’t a soul in sight.<br />
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The
landscape is a contorted mass of blue-grey Ordovician slates. Amid the chaos rises
a grassy twin peaked hill. Atop the highest of the two is an old signal tower
and the summit trig point. The track climbs steeply now and brings us to the
unexpected sight of a large lagoon cupped between two hills, including the one
we are to climb. The lake reflects the deep blue sky and luminescent white
clouds and the wind sends ripples across its surface creating little waves that
break on its shingly shore with a strident hiss. The ragged reeds growing from
its depths whisper mysteriously.<br />
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Nearby is a
still more unexpected sight: an open ended glass construction with interior
stone benches and six surrounding glass pillars. Dubbed the ‘The Tale of the
Tongs’, this is the brainchild of Travis Price III in collaboration with The
Catholic University of America’s School of Architecture and Planning. Unbeknown
to us at the time, it is intended to commemorate the six family names of the island which are etched onto each of the pillars. There is no accounting for taste and
I find this sharp cornered rectilinear edifice somewhat inscrutable and rather
incongruous; it reminds me of an über modern bus shelter. Apparently it is illuminated
at night…</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">There
follows a short, but lung bursting climb up a steep grassy slope to attain the
summit which lies in the shadow of a Napoleonic era signal tower that sits astride
the summit like a fractured and broken down tooth. The views from here over the
smoky grey Mayo mountains are truly panoramic and the ragged surf fringed
Atlantic coastline of the island is a joy. The neatly kept rectangle of ground
to the south of the summit that is the GAA pitch, seems curiously out of place
in this rugged landscape.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span>
We make our
descent back along the track to the harbour along silent farm lanes which are fringed
with blood red fuchsias and the delicate pale pink flowers of dog rose and
briar. The tide is going out, revealing a thin strip of golden sand and seaweed
covered rocks close to the harbour. Here I spot a couple of young men in
wellies and oilskin trousers, the first people that I have seen on this island.
There was something timeless and almost pitiful in the sight of these two whelk
pickers scrabbling about on their hands and knees, carefully combing through
the thick fronds of seaweed in their search for this edible sea snail. Their plastic
buckets were still almost empty when a heavy shower drove them off the beach
and into a nearby hut.<br />
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As we slip
out of the deserted harbour, I can’t help but wonder whether Inishturk’s fate
will eventually be that of Inishark. My eye alights on a large metal pail
wedged into a corner of the deck which wasn’t there before. It’s brim full of freshly
caught and gutted mackerel, the pale pink flesh contrasting with the iridescent
silvery sides marked with characteristic olive green and black stripes. Caught by
our boatmen while we were busy climbing our summit, the fish are payment for
the loan of a small dingy which we will collect at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Clare</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Island</st1:placename></st1:place>
on the way to Achillbeg, our final island. The skipper thinks that we might
need it to embark there at low tide. The gift of fish epitomises the customary
way of life that has existed for generations on these Atlantic islands, where
only cooperation and mutual aid has ensured the survival of these marginal
communities.</div>
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<h3>
<span style="color: #990000;">Achillbeg: Pagan Forts and Rainbow Skies</span></h3>
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The pail of
mackerel is indeed soon traded for the dingy as we set sail in a hefty swell
under a brooding sky for Achillbeg. The <i>Very
Likely</i> pulls alongside a concrete landing pier spread out across a shelf of
rocks close to a cove with ruddy coloured sand and seaweed covered boulders. We mount a
flight of storm damaged steps and head towards the first of the island’s two summits
through shin high grass dotted with the bright yellow heads of bog asphodel. A
conical pile of stones atop a rock outcrop marks this penultimate <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">high point</st1:place></st1:city>. In the
distance I see <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Achill</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Island</st1:placetype></st1:place> and the mainland
on which looms the purple-grey hulk of Corraun. Across a narrow valley below us
is a rocky hillside dotted with sheep, atop which is our final summit. Hemmed
in this valley are a patchwork quilt of long and narrow stone walled fields and
the derelict cottages of an abandoned settlement. At either end of the valley is
the ocean, bounded on the west by a large bank of boulders and cobbles flung
high by winter storms, and to the east by a wide crescent of sand flanked by
reed covered sand dunes. It would not take much of a rise in sea level for this
valley to be inundated and for the island to be cut in two.<br />
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We descend
to the valley bottom past the derelict cottages, although one or two appear to
have been renovated as holiday homes. Like Inishark, Achillbeg was abandoned by
its inhabitants in the twentieth century. This seems strange, as the island is
only a stone’s throw from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Achill</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Island</st1:placetype></st1:place> which enjoyed good
links with the mainland and the community did have electricity and telephone
lines. But life here was also marginal. For countless decades, many of the
islanders made the annual journey to England and Scotland at harvest time to keep
their families from slipping into pauperism, while others eked out a living by
farming and fishing. I pass the crumbling stone walls of the old schoolhouse,
its slate roof collapsed, grass growing out of its chimney pot. It is central
to the story of the island. In 1965, the father of eight children
fell overboard from his boat and drowned. His wife, deeply traumatised by her
loss, couldn’t face life on the island after this and she and her children
left. By then, there were only a handful of families remaining on Achillbeg and
very few children. The government couldn’t afford to pay a teacher to live permanently
on the island and so this school was closed. The people seemed to have lost
the heart to live here after this terrible tragedy and, like the islanders
of Inishark, abandoned their island homes.<br />
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Showers of
sphagnum stars fleck the ground beneath my feet and a thick patch of bog cotton
shines as incandescent as candle flame against a darkening sky as we make our
assault on the final summit of the day. Close to the top, a huge curtain of
rain pulsates across the landscape, briefly swallowing the views to the west,
before blowing itself out, leaving the landscape surreally fresh and gleaming
in its wake.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">From the
summit, the circular outline of two fish cages at the mouth of Achill Sound lie
like a pair of giant’s rings in the wet sands gleaming power blue, and the waters
of this narrow inlet between the island and the mainland shine an iridescent mercury.
From this vantage point we can see the grassy embankments of an Iron Age fort
which lies on a shelf of ground beyond the former potato plots to the west of
the old village. The sinking sun is picking out the walls of the fort in soft
shadows and bathing the land in the warm, rich colours of early evening. It is
said that un-baptised infants were formerly laid to rest in this place. Thought
to be tainted with original sin and therefore unfit to be buried in consecrated
ground, the Catholic Church condemned these unnamed souls to limbo, to slumber
for all eternity amid the ruins of their pagan ancestors. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-IE">We rejoin the
rest of our party on the wet sand of </span>Trawboderg beach. A single yacht
with a white sail and the turquoise waters lapping at its sandy shore lend an
exotic touch to the place, and far out in the bay, a pod of dolphins are entertaining
us with their nautical acrobatics. A light shower of rain causes a magnificent
rainbow to arc above the bay. It is a fitting end to what has been a wonderful
day. It shimmers in the feeble early evening sun for what seems an eternity
before fading just as we leave the beach for the landing jetty.</div>
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The <i>Very Likely</i>
pulls away from Achillbeg, an island of memories that seem to be built into the
very stones of the old cottages and sod covered pagan sites, a place so near,
yet so far away from the draining hubbub of life. We pass beneath the white
lighthouse perched atop the far southern cliffs of the island, built in September
1965 to coincide with the closure of that on <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Clare</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Island</st1:placename></st1:place>.
The little dingy bobbing along behind the boat has attracted the attention of
several shrieking sea gulls who make repeated attempts to land in it. We guess
they must have scented fish. Their aerial antics, including attempts to peck
each other on the wing, give us tremendous amusement and we are somewhat
disappointed as a bright red rib boat powers up to the <i>Very Likely</i> to collect the dingy. It and the seagulls soon recede
from sight.</div>
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In warm and glorious evening sunshine, our boat arrives back
at <span lang="EN-IE">Roonagh Pier. The trip has
been a tremendous success and the fickle weather actually enlivened the day,
providing truly epic skies with sun and shadows casting kaleidoscopic patterns
across the wild and timeless landscapes of these way out western islands. In my
mind’s eye I will long remember the raw and even terrifying beauty of the sea cliffs
and wave pounded coastlines, and also the appalling loneliness that emanated
from the unroofed crumbling cottages being slowly consumed by weeds and
nettles. For me, the islands we have visited today epitomise <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Ireland</st1:place></st1:country-region>, whose
very landscape is a palimpsest of heritage and culture almost unsurpassed in its beauty and
tragedy.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-IE"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-IE">Watch the video at : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gFtlDozPUFs&list=UURpKunrg0ggwy-B7BoR0hKQ</span>Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-57022237491768510882014-05-29T17:19:00.002-07:002014-05-30T00:17:44.220-07:00The Edge of Europe: A Day in the Blasket Islands, County Kerry, Ireland<div class="MsoNormal">
We arrive at Ventry Pier, Co. Kerry, on an overcast and
breezy September morning with a distinct autumnal chill in the air. We are
about to embark on a trip to three of the hauntingly beautiful Blaskets, an archipelago
in the far western reaches of <st1:place w:st="on">Europe</st1:place>. Inis na
Bró and Inis Tuaisceart are seldom visited; the famous An
Blascoad Mór is the best known of the three. This island, the abandoned
home-place of several acclaimed Gaelic writers, a place replete with history
and memory, was perceived as untainted by modernisation and Anglicisation. Like
an exotic flower, it inevitably attracted swarms of linguists and anthropologists,
and, as in all ‘end of the world places’, those who eventually make peace with
themselves when there is nowhere left to run. An Blascoad Mór, a place where
the prosaic and the profound gently collide.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The glassy light of the rising sun streams down in great
shafts from behind a bank of cloud, framing the dusky grey silhouettes of the
Reeks and illuminating the foaming crests of waves. Our boat, the <i>Blasket Princess</i>, pitches and rolls her
way through the swell towards Inis na Bró, the little dinghy that will transport
us to each island bobbing behind in the foaming wake, attached as an infant on
an umbilical cord. We pass through the narrow sound between Inis na Bró and Inishvickillane,
once the holiday home of the late and controversial Taoiseach, Charlie
Haughey. Our boat feels very small beneath the formidable buttresses of
Cathedral Rocks, a tightly clustered mass of teeth-like pinnacles with
mysterious cleft-like sea caves. It looks impossible to land on Inis na Bró, but
it is through one of these half hidden clefts that we are transported ashore. <o:p></o:p></div>
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With barely enough room for our dinghy, we pitch and roll over sucking
petrol blue waters through a dank sea cave encrusted with barnacles, muscles
and limpets, to pass into a secret cove like something straight out of a James
Bond movie. Here it is surprisingly calm and every ripple on the patterned
sands of the crystal clear deep water are etched in intricate detail. Pale pink
sea urchins with delicate tentacles wave in the slight swell, startled fish
flee to avoid the shadow of the dinghy and salmon-coloured star fish stud the
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A clamber over boulders and a steep scramble up a richly vegetated
and slippery cliff face brings us onto the cliff top. Here, the undisturbed
vegetation is an ankle breaking psychedelic spongy mat of lurid green cushions
of sea pinks and moss interspersed with mustard yellow flowers and bright pink heather and undermined by the
countless burrows of Manx Shearwater and Atlantic Puffins that have now
migrated far out to sea. Care is needed to negotiate this treacherous terrain
and progress to the summit is slow. Once conquered, the true majesty of ‘The
Kingdom’ lies before us: myriad islands and spiny rocks float amid sea and sky;
an impossibly rugged and ragged coastline stretches before us and, in the far
distance, the inky blue peaks of the Reeks, huge patches of sunlight turning
the rolling sea below to liquid mercury.<br />
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The keyhole carefully re-negotiated and safely aboard the <i>Blasket Princess</i>, we set course for Inis
Tuaisceart past the pyramidal hulk of An Tearacht, which rises from the <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic</st1:place> like a broken canine tooth, decayed and holed in
its centre by the action of the relentless ocean. A thin thread of whitewashed
buildings above treacherous vertical cliffs ringed by foaming rocks and a
seething ocean betray signs of past human habitation in connection with its
lighthouse.<br />
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Landing on Inis Tuaisceart is challenging, the swell isn’t
large, but the sea sucking greedily at a series of slippery slabs makes jumping
ashore tricky. We time our leaps well and arrive on shore with dry feet. A
short scramble up the cliffs to a sheep fold and we are on our way to the
summit, past the shattered stone walls of settlements, St Brendan’s Oratory and
the ghostly ridges of lazy beds. If those mute stones could only speak, what
stories they would tell of life in this remotest corner of <st1:place w:st="on">Europe</st1:place>!
Of a woman whose husband, a shepherd, died during a ferocious storm that lasted
many days, and she, alone and too weak to lift his bloated, rotting corpse, was
forced to hack it to pieces and carry it out of their cottage, limb by limb. </div>
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Uninhabited now, the island harbours a large colony of Storm
Petrels and is the summer breeding ground of Atlantic Puffin and Manx Shearwater whose
malodorous carcasses litter the ground, the remains of a savage summer-feast by
Great Black-Headed Gulls that do not leave our shores, but circle nosily in the
salt laden air, eyeing all. The island seems to have been upended; a steep
grassy slope leads to vertiginous sea cliffs on the north western side, the sea so far below,
the waves crashing onto the rocks are silent. The words of playwright, J.M.
Synge, who wrote about the utter desolation that was everywhere mixed in with
the supreme beauty of this part of <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region> enter my mind. There is
indeed something almost appalling in the loneliness of this place.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Back on the boat we head for An Blascoad Mór, rising from
the depth of the ocean like the top of a drowned mountain. The stone shells of
rustic cottages dotting the landscape drift into view as we approach. The
haunting cadence of Gaelic seems to be whispered in the very wind, fragments of
poems, prose and plaintive songs that tell of the ebb and flow of life here, of
the wakes and the weddings of those who doggedly coaxed a living by farming and
fishing on this island. The literary legacy all too often recounts and seems to dwell on the misery of life on the island and the death, misfortunes and countless calamities that befell its inhabitants. For although the island is only three miles from the
mainland, during Atlantic storms you might as well be hundreds of miles away, as
it is often impossible to see the mainland let alone negotiate the narrow but treacherous sound, the currents of which
have upended many a nayvogue and sent its occupants to a watery grave. The boat speeds on towards
a small pier past An Traigh Bhan, a strand of pearl white sand bathed by
turquoise waters favoured by grey seals. Above the beach lie the stone walled
fields once fertilised by seaweed to grow potatoes and oats that kept the
famine from these shores. Pleasure boats to the island now disgorge hordes of
curious day-trippers seeking the mystique of a ‘place outside of time’, and the tell tale whitewashed and restored cottages betray the presence of holiday homes.</div>
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Above the old village, abandoned since the last islander
closed his door in 1953, two tracks on opposite sides of the island circle Tur
Comhartha, joining at the saddle below Slievedonagh. The south track has
impressive views of the ragged coastline of the mainland and, on the horizon,
Skellig Michael bursting through the ocean like a grey spear tip. Atop
Slievedonagh the track narrows as it traverses the spine of the island, slopes
blushed pink with heather. An Cro Mór now comes into view. One last push uphill
and the summit is surmounted. This is the point where Europe ends and before
lies the mighty <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic</st1:place>, restless,
relentless. And somewhere over the horizon is North <st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region>. Atop this peak, the eyes
of countless islanders surely stared out across the watery void to dream of new
beginnings…<br />
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The evening crowns the day as the <i>Blasket Princess</i> slips quietly away from the island leaving the lonely
stone cottages once more to the gulls. Tired from the day’s exertions, I soon succumb
to the gentle rolling of the boat as she rides the waves towards
Ventry, landscape and seascape bathed in the warm apricot glow of the sinking
sun. As I begin to daydream, drifting in and out of consciousness, on the wind, I swear I hear a whisper from across the void of time: ‘there
will not be those like us again’.</div>
Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-56219832924414305742014-05-29T11:17:00.001-07:002015-01-11T05:11:50.029-08:00Bird Paradise: Exploring Puffin and Scariff Islands, County Kerry, Ireland<div class="MsoNormal">
The islands off Kerry’s coast are bathed by the <st1:place w:st="on">Gulf Stream</st1:place> that bestows a warmer yet fickle climate that is often
tempestuous, but utterly seductive. An extraordinary light plays on them; their
forms change continuously in response to the kaleidoscopic weather patterns. Some
are easily accessible, others not so. Puffin and Scariff islands, both
uninhabited, are seldom visited. The first is an important nature reserve as a
breeding ground for sea birds and access is
restricted by BirdWatch <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region>. It is estimated that <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Puffin</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Island</st1:placetype></st1:place>
is home to between 5,000 and 10,000 Atlantic Puffins and up to 20,000 Storm
Petrels, not to mention its populations of Manx Shearwaters, Gannets,
Guillemots, Kittiwakes, and Razorbills. Scariff, remoter still, is a world away. Here, feral goats roam the tangled
vegetation and abandoned buildings stare forlornly across restless seas as the
only reminders of past habitation.</div>
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On a calm but murky day, our rib boat slips out of the old smuggling village of Portmagee.
Aboard are a group of hillwalkers and birdwatchers. The distinctive whale back shape of Puffin Island with its black, rugged cliffs soon looms out of the mist, its
cliff-face vantage points home to noisy colonies of Razorbills,
Guillemots, Kittiwakes and Herring Gulls; their raucous calls fill
the air. The island looks impossible to land on, the sea sucking greedily at
slimy rocks as the rib pulls into a rocky inlet. Care is needed to scramble
ashore over rocks slick with algae, followed by a steep climb up a cliff gully.<br />
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Atop the cliff, the vivid emerald ground of spongy moss and wiry grass interspersed with brilliant patches of pink and yellow flowers, is
literally honeycombed with the burrows of rabbits, Puffins and Manx
Shearwaters. You need to pay careful attention as you plant your feet, for a
broken ankle is a real possibility! Along with predation from Great Black-Headed Gulls, the Puffin and Manx Shearwater populations are under threat from
the invasion of mink which have swum across from the mainland. They are exterminating
the helpless chicks in their burrows, decimating the numbers of these protected species. We spot one of
the metal cages that has been set to try and trap these unwelcome predators. Unfortunately,
it’s empty. </div>
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We climb to the highest point of the island which offers
fine views and a sense of glorious isolation. A silvery luminescence periodically
swallows the smooth emerald contours of the mainland which shimmers in and out
of the mist, revealing a ragged coastline of cliffs and zawns gouged out by the
merciless <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic</st1:place>. The wind bears the
rhythmic chugging of fishing boat engines emanating from far below in the mist. Opposite, the lesser
peak rises dramatically from a deep, narrow inlet that almost bisects the
island, the near vertical black cliffs on either side glisten in the feeble sunlight. </div>
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Near here we spot hundreds of puffins and we sit transfixed just feet
away, amused by the antics of the clown faced birds with cartoonishly large,
colourful triangular bills. Constantly jostling for space as they waddle about on a rock shelf on their seemingly oversized webbed feet, they stare quizzically at us, totally unperturbed by
our presence. Others swoop low over our heads in a whirl of black and white
feathers, flashing their gaudy beaks as they come into land. </div>
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Atlantic puffins spend months at sea, no one is quite sure
where, and only return to land in mid-spring to mate, laying one white egg in
May. Both parents take turns incubating the egg, and after about six weeks a fluffy black puffin chick, or ‘puffling’, hatches. These birds are famous for loading
their colourful beaks with a dozen or more fish and winging to their burrow to
feed their solitary, ravenous chick. It’s incredible to think that they often
fly over 20 kilometres out to sea to catch the choicest fish for their pufflings.
It’s now late July and very soon the young puffins will waddle down the steep
slopes of the island and take to air and ocean to face the long Atlantic winter far out to sea on their own.<br />
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The rib boat thumps over the restless waves towards Scariff,
scattering sea birds that protest nosily. Eventually we hear the sound of waves
washing onto rocks and the island begins to emerge through the mist. As the rib
slows, the acrid smell of guano mingles with the sharp smell of sea salt and
seaweed. The eerie shrieks and wails of seabirds rend the air as we glide
beneath towering cliffs bathed by seas of petrol blue. Huge strands of seaweed
sway in the swell and we spot sea urchins, jellyfish and seals in the crystal clear
water. Scarrif means ‘rough place’ in the Irish language and it is almost encircled
by jagged, steep and inaccessible cliffs, home to gulls, terns and gannets that
nestle on every conceivable rock ledge and pinnacle. Their combined chorus is
tremendous. We startle a couple of gannets who perform a lumbering dance across
the water as they beat their ragged wings to become airborne and a group of juvenile puffins who scurry away, their wings beating the surface of the water in vain, before they
relent and dive quickly out of sight. Atop one of the
cliffs, a Billy goat bearing an impressive set of curved horns is silhouetted
against the grey sky. He watches our boat slip by and imperviously stands his
ground as if to announce that the island is his realm. No human has lived here
in almost a century and the utter
desolation of the place seems to be carved into a flight of old stone steps leading
ashore up a narrow cliff face gully.</div>
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We begin our ascent of the island, wet grass, ferns and
heather wrapping itself around our ankles and slapping at our shins. A group of
feral goats pass in and out of the mist and shadow us for the 1.6 kilometre
climb to the summit. I find their presence quite unnerving and am relieved when
they finally lose interest and melt away into the mist. The summit is wrapped
in cloud and the mist is cold and clammy when we stop, so we head down slope past
the vestiges of an ancient hermitage covered by a mound of earth and rocks, and
old stone walled fields now overgrown with bracken and brambles. The forlorn
shells of an abandoned homestead finally take shape in the gloom. We enter an
unroofed cottage and stare through a window still sporting a crumbling wooden
frame, towards <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Deenish</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Island</st1:placetype></st1:place> and ponder the life
of the family that once lived in this place so cut off from civilisation. </div>
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It
was probably the island’s isolation that attracted a colony of medieval monks who built an
oratory on the eastern side of the island. The ruins of this and a burial-ground
may still be seen. The constant low moaning of the sea engenders a sense of sadness,
and I marvel at the self sufficiency and ability to ride out storms that lasted
sometimes weeks on end, of those who have made this island their home over the
centuries. The lichen covered stones of the buildings and field boundaries are
now home to birds, and we are fortunate to catch the strange electronic ‘purring’
sound of a Storm Petrel concealed deep within a crevice of a field wall. We make
our way back to the stone steps leading to the shelf of rock below which bobs our
bright orange rib boat. And with our departure, this Atlantic outcast is once
more swallowed by the mist to return to its eternal loneliness.<br />
<br />
Watch the video at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WVKSsjK3K3E</div>
Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-32920850193836886362014-05-25T16:33:00.000-07:002014-07-04T04:27:20.635-07:00A Wild camp at Lough Dan, Wicklow Mountains, Ireland<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE">There can
be nothing more delightful than the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Wicklow</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountains</st1:placetype></st1:place> in early
spring. The black bogs replete with the sweet odour of wet earth; the hedgerows snowy with blackthorn blossom; in the valleys, the first fragile
green leaves bursting forth from winter weary boughs, and beneath, nestling amid carpets of emerald moss, patches of shy spring flowers: celandines, violets, primrose and wood sorrel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">A call to
the wild beckons, a rough camp on the crescent of golden sand fringed with
willow and alder, the place where the serpentine coils of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Inchavore</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place>
greet Lough Dan. Following the <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Wicklow
Way</st1:address></st1:street>, we climb Ballinafunshoge, which can only be
described as a tree graveyard, eerie, dank and miserable, and Sleamaine, which
only has views towards Lough Tay to commend it. We then head down the remote Cloghoge
Valley, crossing the river at a series of stepping stones by a lonely
whitewashed cottage shaded by a sycamore of Tolkienesque proportions, standing
sentinel close to where the river discharges into the lake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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The sun is
setting as we pitch our tent beneath twisted branches of alder on the sandy <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">shore</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Lough Dan</st1:placename></st1:place>. Across the lake, the ghostly
ridges of lazy beds are momentarily brought back to life in the shafts of
sinking sunlight; the lake, mirror flat, slowly turns a mysterious indigo and
bats begin to flit about in the darkening sky. Our campfire crackles and bursts
into life, sending a volley of sparks heavenward towards a hazy crescent moon
that casts a feeble silvery glow over the indistinct shapes of the surrounding
hills and the mysterious lake. Instant comfort emanates from its flaming
embers, embracing us in warmth and a sense of security.</div>
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Belly full,
I retire to our tent; cocooned and toasty inside my sleeping bag, I listen to
the faint murmur of the lake lapping at the nearby shore and the cries of the creatures
of the night: the shriek of a critter falling victim to a fox; away in the
heather, the constant churring of a nightjar filling the air with tremulous cadence,
and across the valley, deer trading strange yelps and squeals. And amid it all,
I think I hear ghostly voices carried on the wind from a group of shattered stone
cottages upstream.</div>
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<span lang="EN-IE">A riotous dawn
chorus heralds the coming of day. I emerge from our tent to see the sunrise
casting an almost supernatural golden radiance across the deep purple lough. I
sit transfixed on the cold sand, watching fish periodically breaking the
surface of this liquid landscape, creating languid concentric circles. I am being watched by a herd of deer, nervously nibbling the grass on a nearby rocky slope. As I set
out across the beach admiring the reflection of the surrounding mountains on the
still surface of the lough, the deer melt away into the landscape of russet vegetation and grey granite. A startled heron takes off clumsily from the ragged
reeds at the edge of the water, while the sun’s rays illuminate dew covered,
gossamer threads of spiders’ webs strung out like silvery nets on the grass and
gorse at the back of the beach. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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A cheeky
chaffinch, half hidden by plump pussy willows, chirps loudly in the tree above
our tent. Bumble bees float heavily through the still morning air as our kettle
burbles into life. The sun is rising rapidly now and the air has become stuffy
and heavy with the fragrance of gorse. As we leave the tree-shaded beach, the
silence is so profound, our footsteps crunching on the sandy gravel seem to fill the
whole valley with sound. And for one moment, the sense of being the only two
people in the world has no equal. <br />
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Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4778452910647484564.post-90562420316358166282014-05-01T14:25:00.002-07:002015-06-25T07:56:56.547-07:00The Iguazú/Iguaçu National Park World Heritage Site, Argentina and Brazil<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;"><span style="color: #990000;">There’s
a Storm Coming...</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;">Saffron yellow butterflies the size
of my fist drift past as I take another sip of Malbec on the shady wooden
veranda of our hotel surrounded by lush, tropical vegetation. Somewhere close
by, the shriek of a bird rises above the continual low hum of thousands of
insects. It’s late afternoon, the sky is deep blue and the air is still; it’s
about 28 degrees even in the shade. I have succumbed totally to the heat and
humidity which stifles the desire to do anything much, creating a lethargy
which is endemic in the tropics. I can’t say I’m the least bit perturbed, for I
am languishing on a leather sofa soaking up the sights and sounds of the jungle
and this glass of Malbec is really rather good. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background-color: white;">I’m deep in the rainforest in the
Argentinean <st1:placetype w:st="on">province</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Misiones</st1:placename>, a long finger of land sandwiched between <st1:country-region w:st="on">Paraguay</st1:country-region> and <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Brazil</st1:place></st1:country-region> in the far northeast of the
country. Like me, many people will doubtless be surprised to learn that <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Argentina</st1:place></st1:country-region> has
rainforest, equating it primarily with the mighty Amazon. This is the </span><span lang="EN">Paranaense subtropical rainforest, a part
of the <st1:placename w:st="on">Interior</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Atlantic</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Forest</st1:placetype></span><span lang="EN-IE" style="background-color: white;">
which </span><span lang="EN">historically extended
inland from the Brazilian coast to Northern Argentina and <st1:country-region w:st="on">Uruguay</st1:country-region>, as well as <st1:place w:st="on">Eastern
Paraguay</st1:place>,</span><span lang="EN-IE" style="background-color: white;"> covering over a million square
kilometres. Sadly, the pressures of modern development means that over 95 per
cent of it has been destroyed. One of the few remaining inland areas of </span><span lang="EN">forest biome </span><span lang="EN-IE" style="background-color: white;">lies
in Misiones and the neighbouring state of Paraná across the border in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Brazil</st1:place></st1:country-region>. And this area is special
for more than just its jungle: it is home to the Iguazú/Iguaçu Falls.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;">I cast my mind back to a time when I
was about 19, watching the shocking opening scenes of <i>The Mission</i> in a <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Leicester
Square</st1:address></st1:street> cinema. A Jesuit priest tied deliberately
to a wooden cross filled the silver screen, being swept along, semi-conscious,
by a tempestuous torrent towards a watery death. I recall the thunderous sound
of the waterfalls as the foaming, seething, enormous white wall of water
greedily sucked his tiny body down into oblivion. ‘Where is this place?’ I
whispered to my companion. ‘Somewhere in <st1:place w:st="on">South America</st1:place>’,
he replied. As the film unfolded, I resolved one day to see these incredible
falls. Now, almost 30 years later, I was about to do just that.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Darkness has fallen abruptly, the
bottle of Malbec is empty, and the atmosphere is heavy and oppressive. A thick
carpet of cloud blankets the sky blotting out the stars. Even the insects seem
to fall silent as an impending storm breaks somewhere in the distance,
illuminating the horizon with sheets of lilac light. I imagine I hear a distant
low rumble, barely audible, rather like a lazy drum roll. Not a leaf stirs in
the shrubbery near the veranda, yet the atmosphere feels charged and expectant.
</span><span lang="EN-IE" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Without
warning the wind rises, large drops of rain begin to bounce off the waxy leaves
nearby, and the pungent smell of ozone assails my nostrils. Within minutes the
nearby palm trees are sent into a demonic frenzy; the strident rasping of their
dry leaves fill the air as they are bent almost double by the wind. Huge veils
of rain lash the landscape which is periodically lit by lurid flashes of
lightning; muddy pools form almost immediately, spilling little rivulets in
all directions across the baked red soil and water cascades furiously off the
roof of the veranda. The air, rent with the roar of thunder now right overhead,
is pregnant with an earthy-</span><span lang="EN">musty
scent.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Then, as quickly
as it came, the storm departs, leaving everything dripping wet and glistening.
A calm descends and the insects commence their droning chorus. One or two stars
appear through breaks in the cloud holding out the promise of improved weather.
Tomorrow I will see the falls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<st1:place w:st="on"><span style="color: #990000;"><st1:city w:st="on"><b><span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Iguazú National Park</span></b></st1:city><b><span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Argentina</st1:country-region></span></b></span></st1:place><b><span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Men are busy sweeping leaves and branches brought down by last night’s
storm from the streets as we walk along the road to the town of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Iguazú</st1:city></st1:place>, a haphazard
settlement of dusty streets lined with umpteen souvenir shops and cheap cafes.
It has a laid back frontier type feel and is popular with backpackers, with
prices that reflect this. Although it’s not yet 9.00 am, I can already feel the
sweat running down my spine. The sky is overcast and the air is heavily scented
with the pleasant musky fragrance of petrichor<span style="color: #545454; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.5454540252686px;"> </span></span></span>and thick with humidity from the drying earth. </div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">We find the bus </span><span lang="EN">station
and board a local bus that takes us right to the entrance of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Iguazú</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">National
Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in
1984 (and the contiguous <st1:placename w:st="on">Iguaçu</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">National Park</st1:placetype> in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Brazil</st1:country-region></st1:place> in 1986), the park is famous
for its massive waterfalls which are among
the world’s most visually and acoustically stunning natural sites. Across a
width of almost three kilometres, the Iguazú or <st1:placename w:st="on">Iguaçu</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype>, drops vertically some 80 meters
in a series of cataracts four times as wide as <st1:country-region w:st="on">Canada</st1:country-region>
and <st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region>’s <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Niagara Falls</st1:city></st1:place>. What makes
it so special is that it is not just one waterfall but a collection of 275
individual cascades that line a horseshoe-shaped gorge. The river, aptly named
‘great water’ by the indigenous Guaraní, forms a large bend in the heart of the
two parks constituting the international border between Argentina and Brazil
before it flows into the mighty </span><span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Paraná</span><span lang="EN"> River at the Three Frontiers, 23
kilometres downriver. Large clouds of spray</span><span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"> permanently soak the
surrounding riverine forests, creating an extremely humid micro-climate
favouring lush and dense sub-tropical vegetation harbouring a diverse fauna.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">We arrive to find the park entrance swarming with tourists disgorged
from huge air conditioned coaches. Inside we pass by several expensive
restaurants and souvenir shops, their windows prominently displaying lines of
luridly decorated mate pots. We join the front of a queue at the Estación
Central for a ride on an eco-train that will take us to the most popular site: </span><i>La
Garganta del Diablo</i><span style="background-color: white;"> ‘the Devil’s Throat’. After what seems like a long
wait, we set off through flat scrubby bush then plunge into the jungle,
enjoying the views from the open sided train. Our fellow passengers are noisy
and excited and a passing train draws shrieks of laughter and loud cheers. It’s
obvious to us that we will have no chance of seeing some of the shier animals
in the park! We stop at the Estación Cataratas to change trains and soon catch
our first glimpse of the river which flashes in and out of sight through the
dense foliage. After about half an hour we arrive at Estación Garganta del
Diablo, the final station, joining the sudden surge onto the platform as
everyone jostles towards the exit.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">From here it’s about a one kilometre walk to the Devil’s Throat along a
series of raised metal and wooden walkways connecting various islands. Erected
right over the Río Iguazú Superior, the walkway offers fine views of the </span>silver
expanses of water snaking through gaps in the emerald jungle. We spy catfish
swimming in the shallows and turtles sunning themselves on exposed basalt
boulders. A large broad-nosed caiman lying motionless on a muddy bank close to
the water’s edge has drawn a crowd of curious onlookers, all eager to get that
unforgettable holiday shot. Cheeky Plush Crested Jays sporting short fluffy
black hairdos and electric blue facial markings congregate in nearby trees and
seem to play to our cameras, fixing us intently with their beady yellow eyes.
We spot the delightful Ochenta y Ocho butterfly, so named because of the
distinctive black and white patterns resembling an 88 below its maroon wings,
and a Pygas Eighty-eight, which actually lands on Martin’s finger, attracted by
the salt generated by the sweat on his skin.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">As the river widens and the
vegetation thins, we notice huge columns of mist churning in the air. We are
now nearing the gorge and the musical murmur of the falls has become a guttural
growl; the skeletal remains of a previous walkway, twisted and smashed by a
former flood, reminds us of the awesome power of this river. The viewing
platform above which the Argentine flag hangs limply from its pole is literally
thronged with people. All around us the water is fast flowing and swirling
inexorably towards the nearby chasm where it abruptly disappears. Every second
around </span><span lang="EN-IE" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">12,700
cubic metres of water charges over these basalt cliffs which makes a sound that
you feel as much as hear. I stand in awe before this enormous cascading curtain
of white water, its power belied by the reverberations passing through the
platform and up into my body. I think of the opening scenes of <i>The Mission</i> and the hapless Jesuit
priest.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">I am struck by how flat the surrounding land is, just rainforest and
water for as far as the eye can see; it’s the very flatness that makes the
falls the more dramatic, as if a giant fist has smashed into the river’s path
leaving an 80-metre deep abyss. The sky is leaden with clouds that contrast
with the foaming white falls and the air is perfectly still save for the
updrafts of mist laden air that create delicate rainbows which shimmer near the
edges of the gorge. I am mesmerised by the kaleidoscopic lacy patterns and
showers of crystal water drops created as the water plunges over the edge.
Across the gorge we can see people swarming like ants on a viewing platform
running along the Brazilian side of the falls.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Having taken our fill of the </span>gut-churning tumult, we head back to
catch the train. Luckily there was no wind at the Devil’s Throat so we were
damp, but not drenched, and with temperatures in the high 20s, we dry off in
minutes! We disembark once more at <span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Estación Cataratas and head to a nearby cafe for a
quick lunch. The food is expensive and the reheated empanadas just about
edible. Each mouthful we take is watched by a trio of </span>Plush Crested Jays
who pounce on every stray crumb. It is here that we first catch sight of the
coatí, a playful and inquisitive racoon-like creature with a long pointed snout
and a black and white striped tail. These have a keen interest in the nearby
waste bin and it is hilarious to see one hop in and hang by its long hind claws
with its tail dangling out as it rummages through the waste!</div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">We follow the signposts for the 650 metre long Circuito Superior which traverses
a boardwalk taking in several viewing platforms above a semicircle of falls,
each one creating an entrancing misty veil of water. The grey clouds have
passed, the sun is now shining and everything appears in glorious Technicolor:
a deep blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds; exotic foliage in myriad
shades of vibrant green; basalt cliffs glowing rust red and scores of rainbows
shimmering in the mist above the cascades. Opposite is the luxuriantly
vegetated Isla San Martín framed by tall palm trees. This landscape looks just
like a tropical paradise should. We spot Amazon Lava Lizards sunning themselves
on rocks away from the spray and a pair of Black Vultures holding court on a
craggy outcrop high above the river.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background-color: white;">After stopping to satiate our thirst, we are treated yet again to the
antics of more bin-raiding </span>coatís while a small knot of people has
gathered only a few feet from my chair, where someone has spotted a coiled
rattlesnake lurking in the leaf litter. The sight of the diamond patterned
snake unsettles me and we set off swiftly to tackle the <span lang="EN-IE" style="background-color: white;">Circuito Inferior. This route
is simply delightful, offering a shady riverside walk with a spectacular
panorama upriver of the Devil’s Throat, the Isla San Martín with its orange
sandy beach, and the semicircle of falls we had just walked above.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">We suddenly spot a rib boat surging through the rapids on the river,
headed straight for the Salto San Martín. We can hear the shrieks from the
passengers as the captain carefully manoeuvres the boat right underneath the
surging cascade. It disappears into the mist for several seconds to emerge, the
passengers drenched and cheering, hands raised aloft. This looks like lots of
fun and we agree to give it a go the next day, as the afternoon is almost gone.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">As we walk right up to the cliffs below the falls, the vegetation
becomes more luxuriant, walls dripping with emerald moss. Clumps of cerise pink
and white impatiens grow like weeds by the side of the path and begonias with
showers of small pink flowers creep up the sides of the nearby trees. The
crowds have now thinned and we are delighted to find ourselves alone by a deep
turquoise pool. The urge to strip off and plunge into the water is
overwhelming! The strident hiss of cascading water fills the air and the sun,
now low in the sky, casts long shafts of light down over the falls illuminating
the mist which moves in languid circles. We savour this timeless and special
moment.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Reluctantly, we make our way towards the park entrance as the heat of
the day subsides. The manicured lawns close to the entrance building are a
playground for several South American Guinea Pigs, who gambol in the fading
sun, sharing the limelight with Southern Lapwings whose chicks resemble cute
balls of brown and white fluff. A noisy colony of Red-rumped Cacique in a grove
of nearby palm trees seem to toast us as we satiate our thirst with a cool beer
before boarding a bus back to Iguazú, exhausted after a memorable day’s
sightseeing.</span></div>
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<st1:place w:st="on"><span style="color: #990000;"><st1:city w:st="on"><b><span lang="EN">Iguaçu National Park</span></b></st1:city><b><span lang="EN">, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Brazil</st1:country-region></span></b></span></st1:place><b><span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><span style="color: #990000;"> </span></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Our taxi arrives at 9.00 am prompt at our hotel reception. It’s sunny
and a lot less humid than yesterday and I have a spring in my step as I enter the
car, excited to be finally going to the Samba nation! There is a bit of a queue
on the Argentinean side of the border and we have to stop to get our
passports stamped. Before long we are speeding across a concrete bridge over
the mighty Río Iguazú, passing through the Brazilian checkpoint without
stopping. The taxi driver drops us at the entrance to the </span><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on"><span lang="EN">Iguaçu</span></st1:placename><span lang="EN"> <st1:placetype w:st="on">National Park</st1:placetype></span></st1:place><span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"> and promises to
return to collect us at closing time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">We are instantly struck by how more busy and commercialised the
Brazilian side feels. Unfortunately, the cash machine inside the park entrance
is out of order so we cannot withdraw any Brazilian reals, meaning we have to
pay by debit card or in pesos. We soon discover that paying in pesos hikes up
the price, which is already more for foreign tourists, making everything
stupidly expensive. We board a double-decker park bus with audio in Portuguese,
Spanish and English, that leaves from the Visitor Centre. This takes us past the
sugar pink colonial edifice of the grand Hotel das Cataratas to the start of
the Path of the Falls, a 1,200 metre trail which ultimately brings us
face-to-face with the spectacular 80 metre drop of the Devil’s Throat.</span><span style="background: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The picturesque trail meanders parallel to the river and slowly descends
the side of the gorge. It’s popularity means it’s literally teeming with
visitors fawning over the full frontal and panoramic views of the cascades on
the Argentine side. We quickly learn that all the honey pot vantage points are
crammed with people trying to get the perfect holiday snap. It’s impossible to
avoid the crowds and you simply have to accept that there is little chance of
any peace or solitude. Trying our best to ignore the tide of fellow visitors,
we wait patiently for our turn to photograph the spectacular views. </span>Particularly
impressive is the shimmering sweep of the falls where the <span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Río Iguazú Superior plunges
downwards beyond the Isla San Martín and the sight of two circling Black
Vultures silhouetted against the misty backdrop of the Salto Bossetti.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">There are </span>coatís everywhere and they are not the least bit
perturbed by the crowds, actually running along the pathway between people’s
feet! We spot a female foraging in the leaf litter who is suddenly joined by
about eight cubs. They are simply adorable, mini versions of their mother, some
brown and some black, and all holding their stripped tails erect like little
aerials! Further along the trail we pause to allow some people to pass and hear
a faint rustling. To our delight, two black and white stripped and spotty
Golden Tegi Lizards emerge from dense foliage into a bright pool of sunlight.
We get great close up views of these leathery diminutive dinosaurs flicking
their pink tongues as they taste the air, before they amble off into some
nearby bushes.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">As we progress along the trail, we pass the Salto Tres Mosqueteros </span><span style="background-color: white;">(The Three Musketeers) </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">rampaging over steep cliffs into the shimmering misty void below the point
where the river flows over the flat top of the Isla San Martín, having just
cascaded down the Salto Rivadavia, which provides a stunning backdrop. A number
of rib boats collect at the foot of some falls close to the Salto Tres
Mosqueteros, each waiting its turn to dunk its shrieking
passengers under the torrent. The Devil’s Throat at the head of the narrow
gorge is now visible, throwing up vast columns of mist and spray into a
cloudless blue sky full of circling Black Vultures. The vista from each viewing
platform becomes ever more picture postcard prefect, heightening the sense of
drama and expectation, until the pièce de résistance is met with at the end of
the trail.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbzGhr8rVlFsqqNYlXHlQofjYMU7uIC901LP3ScGmCyQoErln9zIkkdXOBN0gDmbip0sXeCdxigC8OYHKccFvUElbwHn0YNSiDiVOwkyZDCSW0MLgD4LvM6IxPGQcx0iZUfDBav3EveXYP/s1600/20131117-144840-P1050430.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbzGhr8rVlFsqqNYlXHlQofjYMU7uIC901LP3ScGmCyQoErln9zIkkdXOBN0gDmbip0sXeCdxigC8OYHKccFvUElbwHn0YNSiDiVOwkyZDCSW0MLgD4LvM6IxPGQcx0iZUfDBav3EveXYP/s1600/20131117-144840-P1050430.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">We descend a steep flight of steps that brings us to the beginning of a
raised board walk which traverses a flat shelf of rock between two sets of
falls. This is indeed a liquid landscape, for there is water absolutely
everywhere and we are soon soaked to the skin by the immense volumes of spray
thrown up all around us. The board walk takes us right to the very edge of the
gorge where we get dizzying views of the river below and peer through the spray
and shimmering rainbows right into the seething, foaming Devil’s Throat. I am
humbled by the sheer power and majesty of nature; it’s almost impossible to
comprehend the immense volume of water that pours down into this gorge every
single second. An enormous rainbow arches above the raging river, the noise is
thunderous and the view wondrous, undoubtedly the best in both parks.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">As if your senses haven’t already been overloaded by the magnificent
boardwalk vistas, there is a special viewing platform atop a tower which is
reached by stairs or an elevator, providing a final breathtaking bird’s eye panorama.
The flat rainforest landscape stretches out into infinity below a deep blue sky
studded with fluffy clouds that recede into the distance and everywhere, the
Río Iguazú Superior cascades down ruddy red cliffs to create myriad falls in
this watery paradise.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDOy3g9tswbkc-7OrTJ-lWtlfdTyT2jUqEJ28RwzPd6Cr_7l7BbpZlVSDySxgYkZWGrq2XjrN88N1DKRO5WKvNl-BGdHu7ToI_Mq-xKVK09-IR4Snw6Sk6ZSzAOmykIIHpA_cEHSjW-C3t/s1600/20131117-152849-P1050482.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDOy3g9tswbkc-7OrTJ-lWtlfdTyT2jUqEJ28RwzPd6Cr_7l7BbpZlVSDySxgYkZWGrq2XjrN88N1DKRO5WKvNl-BGdHu7ToI_Mq-xKVK09-IR4Snw6Sk6ZSzAOmykIIHpA_cEHSjW-C3t/s1600/20131117-152849-P1050482.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">We hop back on the tourist bus and head to the point in the park where
we can sign up for the Macuco Safari. Although this is a tad on the expensive
side, it provides an electric cart ride through a trail in the jungle, then a
600 metre boardwalk to the river where visitors clamber aboard a rib boat for
an unforgettable high speed trip up the river. As we wait for the trip to
depart, we have an al fresco lunch on a shady café veranda. Thousands of
butterflies are swarming just feet from us. They crowd the air and flutter
about the ground in an endlessly moving psychedelic swirl of colour and
patterns. I have never seen as many butterflies in one place and it is with
difficulty that I pull myself away to join the safari.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEbZTwmjaYb5gB3bWjje-kyyrbOiMjTrjrOPDthvMyHxw69gdYc4WVCcJI6_5nyaw9mT-rF2PTu7QubUDZ2Dt6yNl_Fc0rPyx8YPOb-x-1eYUr47GdZY4DhTTr2fb4F-oeSZR9IQxlaNNo/s1600/20131117-161202-IMGP3502.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEbZTwmjaYb5gB3bWjje-kyyrbOiMjTrjrOPDthvMyHxw69gdYc4WVCcJI6_5nyaw9mT-rF2PTu7QubUDZ2Dt6yNl_Fc0rPyx8YPOb-x-1eYUr47GdZY4DhTTr2fb4F-oeSZR9IQxlaNNo/s1600/20131117-161202-IMGP3502.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMw-Fp7TQ7kGRABk9WQ6zCRI_gDX33_Cdanewadbll0EF0MF8Q6yVJhQGxKawTL-ErcFrYQp2LQ0oti6oHBK3sjoHnIsm7jKxotaw9N9cmfT04ig03RNapRJ0DUqjdgTNoOXSu1Z7XtdPi/s1600/20131117-161052-P1050491.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMw-Fp7TQ7kGRABk9WQ6zCRI_gDX33_Cdanewadbll0EF0MF8Q6yVJhQGxKawTL-ErcFrYQp2LQ0oti6oHBK3sjoHnIsm7jKxotaw9N9cmfT04ig03RNapRJ0DUqjdgTNoOXSu1Z7XtdPi/s1600/20131117-161052-P1050491.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">We set off down a shady dirt track with about 20 other people on an
electric cart, the forest canopy tracing delicate lacy patterns high above our
heads. As we cruise along, the guide points out many things of interest:
brilliant orchids, the occasional croak of toucans and shrieks of howler
monkeys. The butterflies seem to have followed us and we pass through swarms of
bright yellow Broad-banded Swallowtails. We disembark the cart and with
instructions not to touch anything, set off along the boardwalk through
a tangle of vegetation, passing curtains of vines and lianas, orchids, palm
trees and various exotic flowers. The insects keep up a deafening background
chorus, crystal clear streams form shady pools mottled with sunlight and the
sibilant hiss of numerous small cascades serenade us as we pass. Butterflies in
every conceivable shade adorn the ground and the momentary flash of a giant
orange beak betrays the presence of a toucan in a nearby tree.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Before long we arrive at the top of a steep descent leading down from
the rim of the gorge to a pontoon set up on the river’s edge. Alongside it bobs
a bright orange inflatable rib boat. My excitement grows as we remove our
sandals and stow our cameras and personal items in lockers before making our
way down to the pontoon. I find it hard to walk down the basalt steps which are
frying the bottoms of my feet! It is well over 35 degrees and as we arrive on
the rubber pontoon, it is imperative to keep moving as the surface is
absolutely grilling. I pass an uncomfortable few minutes as I’m fitted with a
life jacket and am relieved when I eventually take my place in the boat and
thankfully plunge the soles of my protesting feet into a puddle of cooling water!</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The rib boat ventures forward, instantly picking up speed and surging
into the full force of the river, bumping its way over the restless surface,
showering us with spray. The Brazilian lady next to me grabs my arm in
unbridled delight and we laugh like crazy as the boat lurches this way and that
through a series of rapids, below steep rocky cliffs and secluded sandy
beaches. Suddenly, we are level with the semicircle of cascades beyond the Isla
San Martín. The boat slows and we can see the reflection of the falls, the
clouds and the blue sky in the river’s surface. It’s like a scene straight out
of <i>The Mission</i>. We float here for
what seems like several minutes in reverence to this wondrous view, before
moving off rapidly up river past a vicious looking eddy. Straight ahead we can
see the snarling and foaming Devil’s Throat, but it’s far too dangerous to
approach the head of the gorge due to the power of the river and submerged
rocks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">The grey-green water of the river sucks menacingly at our boat as we
line up opposite one of a series of falls constituting the Salto Tres
Mosqueteros, awaiting our turn for total immersion in the raging cascade. The
captain of the boat seems to tease us as he circles and sidles up to the falls
several times. The anticipation is tremendous and we see our fate as boat loads
of laughing, cheering people emerge through the mist gleaming wet in the bright
sunlight. It’s almost impossible to anticipate the full fury of the falls.
First, a disorientating spray descends with a strident hiss, sucking away the sun,
enveloping everything in whiteness. Then the water hits me like a sledge
hammer, forcing me down into my seat, pummelling the breath from my body. People
around me are gasping and screaming; instinctively, I grip the seat in front,
lower my head and screw my eyes shut. The experience, which lasts only a few
minutes, is terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. Shrieks give way to cheers
and rueful laughter as we emerge from the torrent absolutely drenched! My
Brazilian companion looks at me, grabs my arm, throws her head back and laughs
with relief as we speed off down the river in the warm afternoon air towards
the pontoon. All too soon, our amazing river trip comes to an end and we
reluctantly disembark to retrieve our belongings and hop aboard a jeep that
takes us back to where we started the tour. </span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">As we have just under two hours left before the taxi returns to collect
us outside the centre, we catch the tourist bus to the park exit and head for
the nearby </span><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Bird</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Park</st1:placetype></st1:place><span style="background-color: white;">. As foreign tourists have to pay
more to enter attractions in </span><st1:country-region w:st="on">Brazil</st1:country-region><span style="background-color: white;">
and </span><st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Argentina</st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background-color: white;">,
we change some pesos into reals at a nearby bureau de change to avoid being
well and truly ripped off. Inside the park we join scores of other tourists on
a route that recreates the jungle environment. The park is imaginatively
designed and beautifully maintained, with lots of native plants and flowers. We
pass in and out of various gated enclosures where we get close up views of some
of the region’s endemic species, including several varieties of comical looking
toucans with their oversized beaks who eye us warily as we approach. There are
also a wide array of colourful parrots from across the South American continent
who squawk nosily as we enter their enclosures, and a number of hard to spot
hummingbirds, some no larger than a human thumb, who flit from showers of
tropical flowers on iridescent wings seeking nectar with their long, needle like
beaks. Other species include game birds, waders and raptors from across the
world.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">We leave the park just as it is closing and return to the </span><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on"><span lang="EN">Iguaçu</span></st1:placename><span lang="EN"> <st1:placetype w:st="on">National Park</st1:placetype></span></st1:place><span lang="EN"> </span><span lang="EN-IE" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">entrance to find our taxi driver waiting for us.
We pass though the Brazilian border once more without stopping (you do not get
a stamp in your passport) but at the Argentinian side we have to pass through
immigration control and receive an entry stamp. We have time to take a shower
and enjoy a cool beer on the hotel veranda as the sun sets in an orange sky
before the taxi driver returns to collect us once more.</span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><span style="color: #990000;">Underneath the Moonlight...</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Our visit has coincided with the full moon and at the bus station in
Iguazú on our first day, we decided to go for broke and booked up for the moonlight tour. There
are three trips each evening and we are on the second. We arrive at the park
entrance now eerily deserted just as the blood red moon is rising and make our way to a designated restaurant where
we show our tickets and are escorted to our table for a buffet dinner. The
array of food is quite superb, mountains of fresh salad and tropical fruit and the <i>parilla</i> (grill) simply excellent. We
gorge ourselves on huge ribs of succulent pork and hearty beef steaks, washed
down with yet another bottle of excellent Malbec while a waiter attentively
sees to our every need.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><br /></span>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white;">At 9.00 pm we join over fifty other people and listen as a park ranger
informs us about the ecology of the park and its nocturnal fauna. There isn’t a
cloud in the indigo sky which is brightly studded with stars and the landscape
is shrouded in the silvery glow of the moon. We are incredibly lucky
as the storm that greeted us on arrival led to the cancellation of the tours
that night, and the previous night was cloudy.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">We set off on the eco-train to the Estación Garganta del Diablo. The
group is large, excited and noisy and despite being asked not to take photos with a
flash so as not to spoil the ambience of the trip for others, many people
ignored this request and every few minutes we were blinded by someone’s flash. It
is highly unlikely that we will see or hear anything with this cacophony! So as
soon as the train pulls into the station we head briskly for the exit so as to
get to the Garganta del Diablo to grab a few moments of quietness before the
bulk of our fellow travellers descend. The moon is now rising well above the
landscape, and the subtropical vegetation spreads out in monochrome magic for
as far as the eye can see. My eyes are not yet used to this shadowy world but my
ears seem to compensate for the lack of light. I find the sounds of the night
jungle strange yet intriguing: the jarring symphony of low booms and metallic
chirps of frogs and toads as we pass by a marshy area; the occasional shriek of
a monkey, the ever constant roar of water and the background chorus of insects.
In the warm, humid night-time air, smells and scents seem to be amplified: the
mustiness of the soil and the sickly-sweet scent of decaying vegetation; the
sharp almost pungent odour of the water and the incredible fragrance of a
creamy white trumpet shaped flower that only blooms at night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWjDihOEuzVO14J5Ductv4nI441fTscn52X7SA8hJQj1EjDw81wzVM4VoWLkn3JMMdggFnWE3FFFbfasS3Up-5xXkZSHh80jd6KJAKAkMcI9D4EYiOapYFIqU2cBKkpu8E9ulB5ZISxn9Y/s1600/20131118-030705-IMGP3612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWjDihOEuzVO14J5Ductv4nI441fTscn52X7SA8hJQj1EjDw81wzVM4VoWLkn3JMMdggFnWE3FFFbfasS3Up-5xXkZSHh80jd6KJAKAkMcI9D4EYiOapYFIqU2cBKkpu8E9ulB5ZISxn9Y/s1600/20131118-030705-IMGP3612.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white;">We pass people from the first moonlight tour making their way back to
the train and before long we can hear the pounding tumult of the falls. As we
approach the viewing deck we enter a cloud of billowing mist illuminated by the
silvery light of the moon which is being blown over us by the faintest of
breezes. There are just a few stragglers from the first group there, their
pallid faces etched in the moonlight; we are able to take in unhindered views
of the falls and enjoy several minutes of relative solitude before other people
begin to arrive. The scene is totally different, softened from the adrenalin
fuelled face slapping panorama of daytime into something far more elusive,
mystical and slightly melancholic. The river is transformed by the moon into liquid
mercury that races downwards into the gorge collapsing in on itself in a
seething, eerie whiteout. Staring down into the all consuming abyss, you
seem to come face to face with your own mortality. And every so often the faintest glimmer of a
moonbow shimmers above the misty falls as if teasing those with cameras to try
and capture it.</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">We head back on the
train to the park entrance where we are regaled with glasses of champagne before picking up the taxi to our hotel, exhausted but
exhilarated by the day’s sightseeing.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
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<b><span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><span style="color: #990000;">The ‘TBA’</span></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The following day we just have time before our flight back to Buenos Aires to visit the Tri
Border Area, colloquially known as The TBA, where <st1:country-region w:st="on">Paraguay</st1:country-region>,
<st1:country-region w:st="on">Argentina</st1:country-region> and <st1:country-region w:st="on">Brazil</st1:country-region> meet at the point where the mighty Iguazú
and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Paraná</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Rivers</st1:placetype></st1:place> converge. In sweltering humidity
we walk to the Hito Argentina, about a kilometre west of town, which is marked
by an obelisk decorated in the colours of the Argentinian flag. A couple of
ancient vendors manning little stands make half hearted attempts to sell us
tacky souvenirs and badly made handmade crafts. Across the Iguazú river we spot
the equivalent green and yellow Brazilian obelisk and then the red, white and
blue adorned one for <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Paraguay</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
The tower blocks of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Ciudad del Este</st1:city>,
<st1:country-region w:st="on">Paraguay</st1:country-region></st1:place>’s
border city, peering above the jungle canopy look so incongruous. At the bottom
of the hill below the Hito Argentina is a ferry which goes to this tax free concrete
jungle with a reputation for crime and squalor. Warning signs about contraband
and tax evasion are on prominent display everywhere. We had no interest in
staying in either Foz do </span><span lang="EN">Iguaçu
or </span><span lang="EN-IE" style="background: white; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Ciudad
del Este, preferring the quiet, safe, slightly down at heel frontier town of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Iguazú</st1:city></st1:place>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">We end our trip with some cool beers on a shady veranda on a busy street corner of the town watching the
world pass slowly by, reflecting on the fabulous few days we had spent in this
remarkable part of the world. The sight of the piercing white mist that rose
from the depths of the Devil’s Throat crowned by shimmering ethereal rainbows
is indelibly etched in my memory. Like the crucified Jesuit priest in </span><i>The Mission</i><span style="background-color: white;"> who looked so little as he
was consumed by the river’s fury, so too did I feel incredibly small and insignificant in
the face of the majesty and brute force unleashed by nature. I shall carry the
memories of this very special place to the ghats.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">Watch the video of our trip at: </span>http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kkwuRVJpN50<br />
<br /></div>
Kernowclimberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12617465980794406554noreply@blogger.com0