Dances with Marmots - Book Review

For Christmas I was given a paberback copy of Dances with Marmots, by George C. Spearing. It's been on my to-read list for ages; I just want to gobble up any books on walking, especially walking the Pacific Crest Trail!

George is a Fire Fighter from New Zealand who decided to walk the PCT after being given a book by a chap called Stephen Pern who walked the Continental Divide Trail (I suspect it is a book called The Great Divide in the UK).

While I found it an entertaining and easy read (I think I finished it over two days of reading on Christmas and Boxing Day, fitted amongst hours of playing games with my family!), I found the writing to be a bit patchy in places. Sometimes there would be great passages but further into the book it almost seemed like a chronological description of just where he camped or resupplied. Not that I minded that per se; it could even help me plan mine! But for people without those ambitions and who expect rather more crafted writing this may disappoint slightly.

And, for those in the lighter-weight echelons of the backpacking world, this likely wont bring beaming smiles as George carries a Macpac Cascade (90L) and Asolo boots. It was produced in 2005 and I'm not quite sure when he walked the trail but even then he could have reduced the weight he carried.

He had a typical antipodean humour (though is English by birth), which showed in his descriptions of town stops, the people he bumped into and the occasional toilet humour (well we all have to go and it's an even more important subject on the trail!). I liked how he relayed his love of Westerns and how that was mirrored in some ways in some of the characters he met. Some of his descriptions were brilliant, but it started to feel as if he got tired of writing it about two thirds of the way in.

That said it is probably a book I would read again, but I would rate The Cactus Eaters by Dan White as a better read. I also very much enjoyed Chris Townsend's account in his Great Backpacking Adventure which also included the CDT. If any of you have recommendations for other books related to accounts of walking on any of the long trails, especially the Triple Crown (AT, PCT and CDT) then please let me know in the comments!

I found Chapter One here, and as well as being available on Amazon, it is also available as download in PDF here.

Pictures taken from DancesWithMarmots.com

Physiotherapy

For the last couple of months I've been plagued with knee and then hip injuries. It's not especially new, I played rugby for a time at Uni and damaged a knee when a scrum I was in collapsed (I was in the second row because of my height). Stupidly I walked the 4 miles or so home from the game and then couldn't walk again for over 3 days!
Eighteen months ago I suffered a groin strain after doing some basic army type training (which I really enjoy!) but which took a few months to resolve.
After having a fall in the Lake District a couple of months ago which twisted my knee, and then (I suspect) adjusting how I walked to compensate, my right hip flexor has been sending me shooting pain when I made an ascent or descent or had to shift direction. As you can imagine this is not great for someone who wants to be out walking, so I was pleased when my GP referred me for a Physiotherapy assessment.
I had the assessment this morning where I was asked a series of questions by a friendly, knowledgeable Physiotherapist and then my posture then limbs were manipulated around. Basically my right hip muscle group seems to have seized up, being massively less flexible than my left side. It means I don't have much rotation for dealing with uneven ground and the automatic adjustments your feet and body makes and which we take for granted unless or until we are injured.
I've been given two stretching exercises to do, to open out the hip and stretch the hip flexor (Psoas major and minor and Iliacus) and a small muscle inside my buttock (Piriformis). Both are to stretch these muscles out before I start to do strengthening exercises. Neither of the exercises are new to me, if you do sport or yoga then you most likely will (or should) do them anyway, but from a recuperative / informative point of view I thought it would be useful to put links to one of the stretches here:

The impact for me on my walking means that rather than 'doing hills' I am going to try to create some routes that are over flatter terrain (maybe like my last walk which I did really enjoy) and limit my mileage to say a 6-8 mile walk in, overnight camp and same out again. The pain at the moment is just too much to do real hills but hopefully with the work I'll be putting in (and not overdoing things) I will be able to satisfy the mental and emotional need I have to be outdoors. Maybe the wandering element will enhance my sketching if I allow myself more time to cover more miles. So I am trying to not get too frustrated (my friends may laugh here) and to go with the flow, allowing my bod to heal. It will make a change...

Meandering miles

Ah, well after the impromptu post yesterday I was itching to get out, and fortunately there was a tad more snow on the hills south of Sheffield than I'd had at home.

I drove out about 10 minutes away by car to a hamlet to the south of Sheffield, skated over the black ice and did my utmost to resist 'The Gate' pub. Wouldn't be an auspicious start to a walk with the number of times I usually fall over; I don't especially need help with this. Passing over the first of many stiles I entered out onto a snow covered field surrounded by holly hedges. The views across the valleys north were extensive, almost monochromatic with the sky a curious blend of pale cerulean and gamboge hues.


Quickly I headed off across the first field and over another style into a mature woodland. The leaf litter was covered with a light snowy crust, crunching as I walked through. So much to see, to listen to in this world! Black Russian Pheasants flew away in alarm, their wings thumping together with effort, leaves and twigs rattling as they resumed their positions after they passed.




The clean, cold air filled me with glee! Holly leaves stroked through my hair, leaning over the path, reaching out towards me, not letting me pass otherwise. I happily obliged. I was just so full of delight! Bronzed beech leaves still hung in mid air, evergreens provided a darker contrast to the white, white, woodland floor. Such a sensory experience!

Down to a footbridge led up to exit the woods into a field with small ponies, hardy and probably native to the UK. They looked to me hungrily from their hay, whiskers twitching. Crossing into a narrow track and down to Sicklebrook Farm, the dilapidated barns fascinated me, an old long wheelbase Landrover permanently parked, probably never to move again. At a crossroads I headed west down Owler Car Lane, stepping out from the wide open fields and into the next.

I don't know what it is about woods, but I feel an almost primal urge to be there. There are so many stories and folklore about woods. Some in reverence, some in fear. Imagine being in deep, dark woods that extend for acres, boar and wolves sounding in the distance. Bears, even. That still exists in Eastern Europe where some of the tales would likely still have resonance. Here in England the woods are parcelled, few stretching more than a few miles. So when I have the chance to lose myself for a while I enjoy it!


And as usual my eyes were everywhere, noticing the oak leaves, still tinged with the faint traces of green, crystallised in pools of ice, like stained glass under my feet. Paths leading down to streams to be forded, footbridges abruptly broken. Emerging out of the muffled trees I came across a tree laying directly across the path, as if to say "You shall not pass!". I ended up following some faint footprints and crawling between the lower two rungs of the fence to get through (I didn't want to provoke the barbed wire on the top rung). Moments of decision making like this just add to appreciation of the environment you find yourself in. Yes, man has obviously intervened and his presence is everywhere. But you cannot deny the overarching power of nature, the living world, the seasons.

Having crossed The Moss a couple of times already, I headed out into a snowfield, enjoying the space, the marks of pheasants on the snow, dog paw prints weaving around, hare prints characteristic with the longer hind legs. It felt like a perfect mix for me today, enclosed areas, expansive spaces. I again crossed the brook, up the hill and over a field of winter barley to a bench, marked in honour of someone who loved the land. Following the field edge along the hedgerow, birds were quiet, the odd corn husk marking feeding of game.

Eventually I joined a sunken lane, sliding down the bankside (I knew I'd have a bit of a fall somewhere!) and being hidden from view. The already hushed world became more silent still. I recovered myself and headed onwards. These tiny narrow lanes are the remnants of times of more traffic, when farming was more labour intensive, horse drawn. They link one farm to another in a usually direct route. This route was so direct it headed straight down to a ford and then straight up again. Luckily there was a footbridge next to it; I didn't fancy wading across 8ft of water in this weather with a few more miles yet to tread!

Heading up to another farm I noticed the mullioned windows. Probably belonging to the Sitwell estate it looked to be a classic Derbyshire farm with barns that had grown haphazardly around a courtyard of sorts. I could hear pigs and cattle being fed in the byres, the sound of men muttering lowly, grain being delivered out of the silos. Passing through the farm I carried on towards a wood in the distance where I could hear the sound of a shoot. Even walking down the field it was slippery, ice had formed in the divots and hoof prints, eventually overflowing and joining into a death trap tapestry. Beautiful patterns of concentric ice formed in the larger puddles.

Stranger still was in the next wood I noticed long ice crystals in particular mossy areas, as if the ice had grown upwards from the ground. The crystals were almost 2 inches long and easily shattered along their length. they reminded me of Superman's Ice Fortress, the way the crystals were formed. Now that I'd noticed them here, I started to notice them everywhere!

A late lunch was had in the next wood where I noticed the air temperature was noticeably warmer, even the tinkling sound of water underneath the ice could be heard. I got off the path and took some shelter next to a rangy holly tree. Taking my gloves off I carefully placed them on a mossy branch on the ground, sat down and skidded off backwards! I laughed at myself and repeated the process without the skidding off part, and unpacked my beautiful Caldera Cone to get a brew going. The meths easily lit on first strike which surprised me. While the water was boiling I ate a very acceptable Duck and Hoisin sauce wrap from the Co-op, followed by a Mars bar that was as hard as if it had been in a freezer.

After a coffee I packed up and headed out. Down into one sunken lane and yet another, this last seeming more like a frozen stream bed; I was glad of my walking poles. In the valley I could hear a man whistling for his dogs and the sound of the dogs crashing through undergrowth. As I crossed The Moss for the last time, just up from the Mill Ponds, onto some stepping stones, a gamekeeper appeared. He was friendly and warm, offering me a gentlemanly hand across to his side of the brook and warning of the ice covered last stone. I gratefully took his help and we had a chat about the game (he had a couple of brace of pheasant) and the dogs. He was fully kitted out in traditional garb, too expensive to be a poacher! We parted after a short while and I started out on the last stretch home, becoming part of the tapestry of fields.

Wandering

I've been thinking recently about what the attraction of walking is to me. It's not a new musing, but the answers become more clear at different times, then wax and wane almost as with the moon.

There's the obvious link, connection to nature. It's a fundamental part of me, and I suspect, most if not all those who chose to follow what I write. It's a part of me that has grown since I can remember living in Norfolk where I moved to when I was 7. In fact even before then I remember in Nottinghamshire playing in the fringes of the school field, in the scrubby bushes at the intersections of paths running behind houses. Funny to think that those vague memories have had such an impact.

Norfolk was like a Betjeman poem, an age of long lost innocence. Allowed to roam free in the fields, being in effect a young naturalist, knowing the movement and patterns of birds and flowers. The trees spoke most to me; the rivers I swam in in the summer, away from the pike who were supposed to eat young childrens toes!

Moving to Sheffield when I was 12 actually felt like a huge blow. The Sheffield I knew at that time was limiting. I didn't discover the moors for a few years until I started wandering out there after school. Foreign bird life, plant life, smells of the peat. Different to the Broads. My connection with nature was regained to some extent through studying English Lit at O level (I was the last year to study these!), reading Betjeman and other poets of that bygone era. Reading also the classics, Brontes, Eliot, but especially developing an affection for Thomas Hardy. My sentimental nature was developed further by walking alongside Jane Eyre as she sacrificed herself on the altar at Stonehenge. I used to wonder at the characters in Hardy's novels, the distances they would walk across Salisbury Plain, often developing life threatening illnesses in the process.

Fast forward into my more adult life where I discovered other authors through various friends and influences. The inspiration seemed to be more haphazard. I read Patrick Leigh Fermor as he travelled across Europe around the time of the first World War, Nicholas Crane walking his umbrella along the spine of mountains, even travels in Albania (Those Accursed Mountains!), and spiritual quests with Paulo Coelho and Gerard Hughes. They seemed to engage more with the spirit of place than I think I'd allow myself to see recently. I do like to stop and examine and contemplate as anyone who has had the pleasure of my walking company will know. I think this is an essential part of my experience and one that achieving a certain mileage a day may limit.

Recently my yearning has been to walk the PCT; reading Chris Townsend's Great Backpacking Adventure and even this year, Dan White's Cactus Eaters got the wanderlust juices flowing. But how much may my experience be compromised by having to walk?

Thoughts seem to have crystallised more recently in that I find the sense of journeying without necessarily a trail to follow, very appealing. It's a sense of discovery, of myself and the surroundings. The same passage of miles under my feet, but maybe not in a sense of being so planned.

I personally don't know if this is the right 'path' for me, and I am aware of a certain naivety perhaps. But at present that is what draws me in. The journey. The wandering in the truest sense!

This post is pure indulgence for me, and without regard almost for any readership. It's an expression of my current thoughts and feelings and where I gain and may seek spiritual nourishment from, as it is indeed a very spiritual experience for me. Maybe something I will write further on in the future.

Norfolk
by Sir John Betjeman

How did the Devil come? When first attack?
These Norfolk lanes recall lost innocence,
The years fall off and find me walking back
Dragging a stick along the wooden fence
Down this same path, where, forty years ago,
My father strolled behind me, calm and slow.

I used to fill my hands with sorrel seeds
And shower him with them from the tops of stiles,
I used to butt my head into his tweeds
To make him hurry down those languorous miles
Of ash and alder-shaded lanes, till here
Our moorings and the masthead would appear.

There after supper lit by lantern light
Warm in the cabin I could lie secure
And hear against the polished sides at night
The lap lap lapping of the weedy Bure,
A whispering and watery Norfolk sound
Telling of all the moonlit reeds around.

How did the Devil come? When first attack?
The church is just the same, though now I know
Fowler of Louth restored it. Time, bring back
The rapturous ignorance of long ago,
The peace, before the dreadful daylight starts,
Of unkept promises and broken hearts.

Snow!

The past week has seen the UK mainland transform under a blanket of snow. Once familiar landmarks disappeared under a mantle that softened edges and reflected light back from all angles. Trees are bowing under the weight, birds coming up to the door step and people talking to other people that they've hardly seen before, let alone actually spoken to.
So while many in the walking and backpacking world are excited and optimistic about the possibilities for walking (if they can actually make it out to the countryside), I took the opportunity to walk around the village where I live, on the South East fringe of Sheffield, and to enjoy this rare time.

On this particular wander I passed an ancient orchard in the village which has been under the preserve of a local environment group. It is carefully managed with many varieties of apple suited to the area, and the grass under the trees, and now under the snow, being carefully grazed by Highland cattle and sheep. Coming across the orchard today I was more in mind of a much more northern landscape, not one just north of the Midlands. It was startlingly beautiful, the light clear and crisp and threw into relief the shapes formed by the snow.

Later in the day I walked to the local church, the sunshine had long gone and was replaced by flat, grey, snow laden clouds. I had to kick steps into the steps leading up to the churchyard; large flag stone steps had been replaced by a slick slope where others had been a day or so before. Unexpectedly the pattern of snow on the gravestones seemed to appear almost random. Some had snow towering over, some were wrapped in it, some had shed much with only a thin veneer, though soon to be replaced.

The avenue of trees leading towards the church was transformed into a magical, inviting procession, the rows of gravestones beyond forming marching lines.
Snakes of snow wrapped around crosses, accentuated points of needles and contrasted with the sinewy trees. The world became a lithograph, monochrome. And then blurred with snow as another blizzard came.

It was a joyful experience to see, and be part of, people connecting with one another in the streets, strangers sharing stories and families bonding. With schools being shut there were a few children out playing, though not as many as I expected, making snowmen and chucking snowballs in glee. Adults seemed to be migrating to the local park with sledges and the odd snowboard, or later to the pub, hoping one of the four in the village would be open! Older people were not, as you'd expect, much in evidence; I had checked on my neighbour if he had needed anything, knowing there are many who are vulnerable at this time of year. Sometimes just a "Hello" is enough, but clearing a path or fetching groceries gives them a feeling of being thought of and cared for, and may be the only contact they have for days... And while I am wandering freely around, clad in my outdoor gear, I know that just 5 miles away, men and women have been stuck in their cars for more than 24 hours, assisted by the local Mountain Rescue Teams, although this is actually just off the M1!

So while snow invokes different feelings for different members of our society, I am hoping to make the most of it, appreciating the different forms to see in this world, different skills needed. I want to make snow angels, snow men and women, snow caves and igloos and to kick steps and slide down hills. To listen to nothing and to hear shrieking laughter and the thud of a snowball. To paint skies that are darker than the land, to seek sanctuary in snow covered churchyards with their dead and to appreciate the world around me.