Continental Drift http://nicolaunderdown.com the life and times of a girl who does stuff posterous.com Mon, 13 Feb 2012 13:38:00 -0800 The final assault of Carnedd Llewelyn http://nicolaunderdown.com/the-final-assault-of-carnedd-llewelyn http://nicolaunderdown.com/the-final-assault-of-carnedd-llewelyn

It is possible to grow to dislike a mountain.  A hill, even.  Perhaps it's making a mountain out of a molehill (ba-dum tish!) to start to dislike inanimate objects, especially ones of significant age.  But by the end of 2011, I was beginning to dislike Carnedd Llewelyn.

Now, don't get me wrong, I respect the hill.  At just a few metres shy of the height of Snowdon, Carnedd Llewelyn is a decent size, and sits perched in the centre of the Carneddau ridge, amongst other respectably tall hills.  No, I respected the hill.  I just couldn't make it to the top of the bloody thing.

Back in early spring 2011, Dave and I were still full of Canadian-style enthusiasm for getting outdoors at every opportunity.  We climbed Moel Siabod with snow on the ground, and so set off in March to try and climb up Carnedd Llewelyn from its northern side.  On a cold, blustery and sleeting day, Dave and I plodded up from the car, got as far as the abandoned slate mine under the hill's flank before deciding to retreat.  The sleet had turned to snow, the wind had picked up and the peak was shrouded in fog.  We took shelter in the ruined buildings, ate our lunch in the rapidly worsening weather and then trudged gloomily back to the car.  1-0 to Llewelyn.

The months passed, and with my birthday approaching, Dave asked what I'd like to do on the day itself.  Another crack at Llewelyn seemed on the cards, this time accompanied by Steph & Ben Van Loo (Dave's sister and her husband).  The shorter autumn days left us struggling to make the most of the daylight, and although we had a beautiful day's walking in glorious sunshine, we'd set off too late and decided to make a tactical turn around at 2.30pm.  It was lucky we did, as darkness had entirely fallen by the time we made it back to the car.  We settled for drowning our sorrows with some delicious prosecco to wash down the birthday meal of fish and chips.  Llewelyn was thrashing us: 2-0.

Carnedd_l_bday

When 2012 dawned, I decided that I wasn't going to be beaten.  I wanted to walk up Carnedd Llewelyn - damn it, I was going to enjoy it too!  So in the first few weeks of January this year, we found ourselves back at the foot of the Carneddau, approaching from yet another direction, but this time with a secret weapon.  That secret weapon?  Not Kendal mint cake.  Not walking poles or a fancy GPS.  No, our secret weapon was my mum's sister, Lesley.  With the power to summon us from our beds at a reasonably prompt hour of the morning, multiple previous ascents of the hill (thus requiring no navigation from us) and a cracking route to the summit, Auntie Les was the key we'd been missing.  We started from Ogwen, climbing steadily out of the valley while the sunshine bathing the hills started to thaw the frost which iced the turf and stones.  

The fantastic shape of Tryfan behind us as we climb from the valley.

Our first peak was Pen Yr Ole Wen, before we continued along the ridge to Carnedd Dafydd.  Not only were we going to bag Llewelyn - we were seeing the tops of two other 3000ers for good measure!

Auntie Les and I stride off into the distance.  The walking group leader from Plas Y Brenin said to Dave and I (separately) that we were setting a cracking pace.  Of course, Auntie Les was setting the pace, which I think he knew...

The route was a triumph.  We'd scrambled, we'd climbed slowly and steadily and we'd stepped out along a stunning ridge with glorious views in every direction.   The skies were clear and the sun was shining as we climbed the last few metres to the top of Carnedd Llewelyn, and I was so glad to have had such a beautiful day to finally make it to the top.

We slowly and steadily returned to the valley; the sun faded and the temperature dropped.  As we walked, we started to eye up other peaks, with Auntie Les egging us on every step of the way: "Ooh, you'd like the north side of Tryfan.  And once you're up there, you can do the Glyders.  Have you thought about doing all the 3000ers in 24 hours?".  This way lies madness - either that, or we keep giving the impression we like a challenge!

So we got there in the end, but despite it taking three attempts to finally get to the top, I can't feel bitter.  I wouldn't have swapped all the walks we've been on over the last 12 months.  Now to get on to the rest of the list...

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]]> http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/1014908/Nich_on_Master_of_my_Domain__Cheakamus_Canyon_Aug_02_2010.jpg http://posterous.com/users/kem0OtCGPL Nicola Underdown nicolaunderdown Nicola Underdown Wed, 14 Sep 2011 14:34:35 -0700 It's just like learning to ride a bike http://nicolaunderdown.com/its-just-like-learning-to-ride-a-bike http://nicolaunderdown.com/its-just-like-learning-to-ride-a-bike

Almost without noticing, the summer of 2011 has become the official ‘summer of learning’.  Earlier this year, I took the decision to learn how to lead climb; the worst summer weather since 1993 has conspired against me, so that practice hasn’t been as frequent as I might like, but then again I’ve also realised that learning to lead climb is going to be a lifelong process.  As I tried to step up my fitness, I found myself signing up for a ‘crash course’ in swimming, and within a few days I was able to swim a length of the pool with front crawl.  It was like getting the keys to a new kingdom, and although I’m still practising the swimming, I really enjoy the feeling of improvement.

 

So, to top it all off, I decided to learn to ride a bike.  Now, I know what you’re thinking. I’ve had microadventures on my bike; I’ve followed national cycle routes.  I can definitely ride a bike.  But put me on a bike with fat tyres and wide handlebars, when the trail gets bumpy or steep, then I’m not really a happy bunny.  Perhaps seeing the bike I’ve been ‘borrowing’ for the past few months will demonstrate why:

 

Falcon_ibiza


Makro’s finest mountain bike, of about 10 years ago. Loving those colours, too.

 

But we’re heading back to the continent of North America, which includes a stop in Whistler for Dave to try and injure himself in an entertaining and non-permanent way.  Would I hike? Sip caramel cappachillo all day? Or would I try and ride down a mountain (on the easy trails)? To decide, and to help me prepare, I headed to mid-Wales for a course with Forest Freeride.

 

Day one started with me getting fitted with a borrowed bike.  Ooh, proper front suspension! Disc brakes! And it’s purple! (Sadly by midway through day two, the bike had succumbed to my uncanny ability to fly headfirst over the handlebars, and it was replaced by an altogether less sparkly grey number).


Dialled_alpine
 

 

Before I had chance to demur, we biked up into the forest which clads the hills around.  Body position was discussed, and I finally learnt why Dave kept suggesting that I stand up while I ride.  Then it was on to the brakes, climbing a short way up a track before pelting down again, learning to trust that the brakes would stop me swiftly and safely (and probably more quickly than the brakes on my car, these days).

 

That day, and the next, passed quickly in a flurry of principles of movement, basic physics, and battling my subconscious desire to jam the brakes on at all times.  I learnt to look ahead, rather than directly down at whatever obstacle – tree root, rock or log staircase – I was actually travelling over.  I learnt to adjust my feet and lean when going around banked, sweeping corners, whilst keeping speed low and turning my shoulders when encountering a slower corner.  I can now lift the front of a bike with a pedal stroke (though I haven’t mastered the famed ‘shopping trolley’ manoeuvre yet, which would allow me to land with both wheels at the same time.)  I’ve also learnt that I’ll have a go at something scary, even when my initial instinct – and that of my companions – is to feel the fear and refuse.  And I’ve learnt that falling off hurts a little bit, shakes you up for a while, but that it isn’t the end of the world.

 

At the end of the weekend, as I started back towards phone reception, traffic congestion and the flatlands of the Midlands, I was exhausted (mentally, more than physically) and exhilarated.  I felt much as I do when I’m on the ski slope; I might not be going quickly, and I might not be stylish, but I feel like I could, at the very least, have a go at getting down a lot of the routes I might encounter.  So I'd be having a go on the trails of Whistler.  The question would still be, would the course be enough to prepare me for life on a bike in British Columbia?

 

 

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]]> http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/1014908/Nich_on_Master_of_my_Domain__Cheakamus_Canyon_Aug_02_2010.jpg http://posterous.com/users/kem0OtCGPL Nicola Underdown nicolaunderdown Nicola Underdown Mon, 05 Sep 2011 14:04:00 -0700 The tall tale of Mr Frog http://nicolaunderdown.com/the-tall-tale-of-mr-frog http://nicolaunderdown.com/the-tall-tale-of-mr-frog

"EEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" went the noise outside my window.  I tapped away at my computer keys; it barely registered.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" it continued. Now it penetrated my consciousness. What is that noise? It sounds like a squeaky toy, or a balloon being let down very slowly.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!". Nothing makes that noise. Nothing happy, anyway. I could hear the jingling of the bells on the collars of next door's cats.  Slowly, the cogs turned in my mind. Cats don't play with squeaky toys.  I leapt up and dashed downstairs, running to the back of the BBC van parked on our drive.  The cats were there, staring at an unmoving frog.  I chased them off; the frog remained, silent and unmoving. Oh dear, I thought, they've killed another one - Dave had already spotted them batting one around a few days before.  Now he joined me outside, wondering what the commotion was.  I was just contemplating how best to transport the unfortunate frog to the bin when Dave stopped me, pointing out it was still breathing.  With no obvious injuries, it was hard to tell whether it was wounded or just traumatised.  We decided to give it a chance to recover, and as Dave put an inch of water into a bucket, I scooped the frog up and into the dark, damp bucket.  It shuffled about and resumed a more frog-like form.  The bucket was moved to the kitchen to allow the frog to recuperate.  

With no obvious water sources near by (and no hint about where the frog had come from), the question was, where should the frog go?  The stream running through Highfields Park seemed an obvious spot - a nice shallow stream, with plenty of woodland and even other frogs.  Plans were made for a release into the wild.

During our discussions, the frog had made a remarkable recovery. So remarkable, in fact, that it was now lurking in the corner of the kitchen, having leapt out of the bucket.  I was suddenly very glad I'd put the bucket on the floor, not the table.  However, this made its chances of a successful life in the park more likely, so with the frog loose in the kitchen, it suddenly became an urgent task to take it somewhere more hospitable.  I lunged towards the frog, almost grabbing it, before it leapt from my grasp. It bounced off the patio doors, trying to escape. Every time I got near it, it sprang away, until finally! Success. It was back in the bucket. Sadly, I hadn't really considered the fact that the frog was palpably capable of escaping the bucket, which it promptly did.  Back to square one.

Mr_frog_on_the_kitchen_floor

By this time, Dave had stopped laughing long enough to pick up his camera.  Help? Dave? Why would he do that when he could film the whole rescue?  He asked me to name my unwilling rescue-ee.  Mr Frog was settled on.  (The film's here, if you've got 90 seconds spare).

I spotted the kitchen compost caddy, and realised that, deeper than the bucket, and with a lid, it would make a perfect frog-carrying receptable.  Its contents were hastily dumped in the bin, and with trepidation I approached Mr Frog.  I expected resistance, but Mr Frog, perhaps understanding my altruism, graciously  accepted being picked up. Only when I got him over the bucket did he try to escape, leading to a more forceful descent into the bucket than I'd anticipated. The lid was on! We were on our way!

Living near Highfields Park, I know its streams and paths fairly well: I've walked Mavis the dog there; I've run round the lake; flown a kite on the field; and walked to and from various jobs or courses on campus over the past few years.  Soon enough, I was crouching by a small footbridge over the trickling stream, trying to encourage the frog from his comfortable compost bin home.  

Mr_frog_reluctant_to_leave_the

After a slow start, he made it onto the mud, and then into the stream.  I left him submerged in the water, his eyes and nose protruding, as he enjoyed the water flowing gently past, and contemplated the insect life he might feast on later.

Mr_frog_at_home_in_the_stream

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]]> http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/1014908/Nich_on_Master_of_my_Domain__Cheakamus_Canyon_Aug_02_2010.jpg http://posterous.com/users/kem0OtCGPL Nicola Underdown nicolaunderdown Nicola Underdown Fri, 22 Jul 2011 15:21:48 -0700 How to have an entirely unsuccessful bouldering trip http://nicolaunderdown.com/how-to-have-an-entirely-unsuccessful-boulderi http://nicolaunderdown.com/how-to-have-an-entirely-unsuccessful-boulderi With a few days to fill while Dave is on a mountain-biking holiday in France, and with a climbing trip to Wales having fallen through, I was left with a dilemma. Should I head to the hills for some hiking? Get out on my bike? With weather undecided, I made an early dash up to see family, with a plot to check out climbing opportunities in the vicinity.  I've already eyed up Helsby Hill (a bit of a serious prospect at the time, as I didn't own a rope, although it did have an unexpected delight of an Iron Age hill fort atop it).  Surely the time was right to check out the bouldering located on the next crag along the valley? So, without further ado, I give you:

How to have an entirely unsuccessful bouldering trip
(You'll have to do without photos.  I was so unsuccessful, I didn't take any)

1.  Dither about whether to set off early or late, or indeed whether to set off at all
The morning started optimistically, with the grey skies and cloud cover of late being replaced by bright sunshine and blue skies.  I'd checked the weather forecast though, and it said the whole day would consist of sunny spells, so instead of running to my car, I decided to do a bit of work first.  I'd check out the crag later, after lunch - after all, it's west facing.  Afternoon sunshine will be lovely.  What could go wrong?  I watched with horror as heavy cloud piled in during lunchtime, ate my sandwich to the accompaniment of torrential rain and eventually decided that I should bite the bullet and go - remembering my rain jacket.

2.  Go somewhere new
I'd never been to the crag, even on a recce. I'd never walked in the woods which surround the crag. I didn't speak to anyone who'd been there, post a question asking for advice on a forum or read the details in the guidebook (at least I had a guidebook).  I just followed the directions and turned up without the slightest idea of what to expect.  If I'd read the guidebook more closely, I would have noticed a few vital pieces of information; here's a sample. Firstly, two of the walls described in the guidebook are tall enough to require a rope and rack, with the writer suggesting that regular climbing grades were more appropriate than bouldering grades, and even that such walls were always tackled by the 'terminally confident'.  I was planning to boulder - that is, to climb low problems unroped.  I wasn't confident, and certainly had no wish to be terminally so.  Secondly, I'd have noticed a comment to the effect that some of the landings are a bit dicey - though they failed to mention quite how steep the slope is below the cliffs.  A bouldering mat, or at the very least, a companion, were recommended, though scaffolding would do.  And finally, I'd have noticed that the crags actually face north west, and the guidebook marks them with a little 'Kermit the frog' symbol.  This became important later.

3.  Get entirely lost
As well as not knowing what I was looking for, I didn't really know where to look. The map in the guidebook essentially looks like an insect has been squashed onto a green page.  The directions seemed clear enough until the cryptic line 'cross the plantation diagonally'.  Which diagonal?  A path ran in each direction.  Soon I was standing on the top of a peak, admiring the remains of another Iron Age roundhouse, and wondering at the (enormous) size of the rabbits living on the hill.  No sign of any cliffs though, and it would be an hour of wandering, guided by my phone's compass, before I accidentally stumbled on (and nearly off) the cliffs. Not before I'd descended a couple of hundred metres, though.  Before realising I needed to be at the top.

4.  Choose inappropriate approach shoes
I hadn't considered what the approach would be like under foot.  Not for me the consideration that, after a week of on and off rain, and after a morning's heavy shower, it might be a tad slippy.  No, I trudged off across the fields, up the hills and down the slippery paths towards the crag in a pair of Converse trainers.  As I carefully traversed a narrow, sloping path towards the crag, I wondered whether I had subconsciously sabotaged my own plans.  Surely, I can't simply be that stupid?  No. I am.

5.  Become concerned for your own safety
I finally stood in front of the crag.  Holds were chalked up.  I sipped from my water bottle, took in the view, and suddenly found myself wondering how I would drive myself home if I were to break my wrist.  This is not what the climbing gurus call a 'positive frame of mind'.  I checked the guidebook.  Eyed up a couple of routes.  Laid a hand on the rock, only to grasp the extent to which the 'Kermit the frog' icon truly applied to this green, greasy, moss and mould-covered rock.  A tentative toe slipped off.  I watched a squirrel, happily perched high in a beech tree, ripping open and eating the beech nuts.  I took another sip of water.  I walked back to the car, drove home and had a cup of tea and a cake.

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]]> http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/1014908/Nich_on_Master_of_my_Domain__Cheakamus_Canyon_Aug_02_2010.jpg http://posterous.com/users/kem0OtCGPL Nicola Underdown nicolaunderdown Nicola Underdown Tue, 28 Jun 2011 10:52:51 -0700 Walking the Yorkshire Three Peaks http://nicolaunderdown.com/walking-the-yorkshire-three-peaks http://nicolaunderdown.com/walking-the-yorkshire-three-peaks "Surely it's got to be Paul Simon?"
"Got to be."

This was not how I'd expected my day to end, coming last in a pub quiz in Long Preston, having a few drinks and enjoying the free chips.  But then it had been a day in which I'd already learnt a lot: that Grenadine is made from pomegranates; that Carl Douglas, singer of 'Kung Fu Fighting' looks like Fatman Scoop; and that Dave and were capable of walking 23 miles and ascending the three tallest hills in Yorkshire in a day.

I hadn't expected Dave to agree when I had floated the idea of doing the Yorkshire Three Peaks, months before when the nights were still long and the thought of taking on such a challenge seemed reassuringly distant.  I certainly didn't expect him to agree to try it on his birthday.  But the fates conspired with us, and so shortly before 9am on Friday June 24th, we shouldered our rucksacks and walked out of Horton-in-Ribblesdale.

The first thing you'll notice, if you or anyone you know has done this challenge or anything similar, is that 9am is not a particularly early start. Neither Dave nor I are constitutionally capable of being morning people, so eating breakfast at 7.30am and walking before 9am actually represents a success for us.  It also means that you're unlikely to see many others taking on the same route, as they all left at least a couple of hours previous to us.  When we overtook a group of blokes at the end of the day, it felt like being a Formula 1 racing driver lapping a backmarker, rather than the truth that we'd managed to catch up another group of people whose grip on what constitutes 'a good time' was as loose as ours.

I can also confess to you now that, although I'd actually gone and bought the right OS map for the walk, we started out planning to navigate simply with four pages extracted from an old walking magazine. They are somewhat easier to handle in a stiff breeze than the full OS map, but did have the downside of being a bit sketchy on details, distances and directions.  We maintained the usual confidence we show in these situations (see navigating around Canada by table napkins and postcards), although the actual map did come out as final arbiter on a few occasions.

Starting from the village, we took a track up from Brackenbottom to meet the Pennine Way, before climbing the steep and rocky slope to the summit of Pen-y-Ghent.  Taking a little over an hour and ten minutes, this three peaks malarkey seemed like a breeze.  Time for a summit photo, a quick cup of tea, and a check of the map to get the right descent route.  Little did we realise that the next ten hours wouldn't seem quite so straightforward.

The rain started splattering as we cut onto the track which leads across moor and bog towards Whernside.  Waterproofs came out, and hats and gloves were donned to stave off the biting wind.  As it got damp underfoot, we commented to one another, 'ah, well, it does say it gets boggy'.  

Boggy would be an understatement for the next few miles of walking.  The undulating moorland provided a clear view of Ingleborough and Whernside in the distance, but the topography also meant that the recent rain collected in each hollow, leaving soggy moss, reeds and peat bog to cross.  Footsteps showed that our predecessors had gone wider and wider in each attempt to get across.  We rapidly learned to distinguish between plain old mud (wet, slippery, but likely to have a solid base underneath) and bog (superficially similar but seemingly without end).  My sharpest lesson was when, feet sinking rapidly, I took a bold plunge to try and get across a wide channel, only to find one leg had disappeared to thigh level without hitting anything solid.  You know the noise you hear on wildlife programmes when baby animals find themselves in this predicament? It turns out that noise is involuntary, as I honked and squeaked at the fact that I was flailing, trying not to sink, struggling to escape with my boots and body intact.  I made it out but I don't fancy doing that again, if you don't mind.

We decided to call this the bog of eternal doom.

We squelched on across the moor, picking the driest path we could find, but it made for painstaking progress.  The alternative was thrown into sharp relief when we were passed by two fell runners, covered from head to food in bog mud, and likely to be finished on their circuit long before us. I was wet and soggy, but not that wet and soggy.

Firm ground under our feet, the sun broke through the cloud to greet our arrival on the road to Ribblehead.  When I'd seen the viaduct on the horizon, I had been disbelieving of the notion that I would be able to walk all that way. Now, despite the heaviness I was feeling in my legs, Dave and I were sitting right beneath its arches, eagerly devouring our lunch. I think deciding where to stop to eat was the closest that we came to an argument all day - more than a little amazing, considering our ability to stubbornly hold diametrically opposed views on the most minor of things.  But it wasn't surprising that we were a little grouchy by that point - with a fair few miles gone, and six hours since my porridge breakfast, I was famished.

To be deemed to have completed the Three Peaks challenge, your walk needs to be done in under 12 hours. Not satisfied with that as a target, Dave had concluded that 10 hours was a nice round number to attempt.  As we sat at the foot of Whernside, I began to seriously doubt how possible that was.  The route picked out by our anonymous magazine writer took a direct (and steep) route up the front of the second peak, shaving distance but also making for tired legs. With a final effort, I joined Dave at the top of the 45 degree slope, and we walked the last few hundred metres to the summit shelter and trig point.

The view from the top of Whernside was outstanding - by far the most satisfying of the three, the shape of the summit providing a great panorama, and, through a combination of good weather and visibility, being able to see Ingleborough and Pen-y-Ghent clearly.  Pen-y-Ghent now seemed a satisfyingly long way away (although I was concerned to remember that our car was over there) and having made it to the top of two hills, a psychological barrier seemed to come down and I began to believe I was going to be able to do this without my legs dropping off.

We were still trying to stick to our schedule so after the briefest of stops on the summit (quick photo, and a chance to apply gaffa tape to my heels to stop blisters), we were off down into the valley, and looking up at the final slopes of Ingleborough.  We had a quick stop to chat to a walker who pointed us in the right direction for the path across the Nature Reserve, and who assured us that the descent into Horton was around three miles.  Later in the day, I would reflect on how inaccurate his estimate was, and wish all sorts of vengeance on him.  I apologise if he suffers any stabbing pains in his knees on future walks.

Ingleborough, like Whernside and Pen-y-Ghent, is surrounded by peaty bog but unlike Pen-y-Ghent, Ingleborough (and Whernside) both have delightful paths with large stones or boardwalks to give the tired and ailing walker a nice solid surface to walk along.  This also makes for super-easy navigation, despite being somewhat dubious when I saw that the path we were on took a very direct, nay vertical-ish, line towards the summit plateau.  It is possible that I may have been over-exaggerating through exhaustion.  

Or perhaps not.

In any case, with the aid of my newly-invented coping mechanism (it's easy: take 100 steps; stop and rest. Repeat til the top), we were soon striding across the plateau towards the last trig point, where we celebrated with a drink of water.  As we huddled in the summit shelter, preparing for the last part of the journey, I dug deep into my rucksack and pulled out the fruitcake I'd made and iced for Dave's birthday, lighting a candle which threatened to go out instantly, while I sang 'Happy birthday'.  He seemed pleased, surprised, but most of all, hungry!

Camera is actually balanced on the trig point!

With Pen-y-Ghent as our directional marker, we started down the descent, all the adrenaline of completing the peaks draining away, to be rapidly replaced by tiredness and the overwhelming wish for the day to be over.  The walker who'd estimated 3 miles from the peak back to the village proved to be inaccurate by an order of almost 100%, and so the confidence that we'd make our arbitrary 10 hour target was stymied by the extra hour it took to walk those final few miles.  The rain had just started as we got back to the car, pretty much exactly 11 hours after we'd left.  My smile was broad as I donned my flipflops and we headed back to our B&B, for a shower, a meal, and that pub quiz.

You can see the whole set of photos Dave took on the day here.

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]]> http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/1014908/Nich_on_Master_of_my_Domain__Cheakamus_Canyon_Aug_02_2010.jpg http://posterous.com/users/kem0OtCGPL Nicola Underdown nicolaunderdown Nicola Underdown Sun, 22 May 2011 08:41:31 -0700 On learning to lead climb http://nicolaunderdown.com/on-learning-to-lead-climb http://nicolaunderdown.com/on-learning-to-lead-climb I'll let you into a secret.  I was a teenager in the 90s.  Remember the grunge look? Checked shirts, terrible baggy cardigans and doc martens? That was me.  The alternative music of that decade - Smashing Pumpkins, Soundgarden, Nirvana - still fills my iPod now.  But one of the best things about growing up in the 90s was the number of women playing in bands.  While D'Arcy may have been seen as the token female in Smashing Pumpkins, you would have to have been feeling particularly reckless to suggest the same about Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth. The Breeders, Throwing Muses, Bikini Kill, Sleater Kinney, L7, even PJ Harvey; I saw women with instruments, and so the idea of learning to play and joining a band didn't seem at all outlandish.  But I also knew that prejudice was harboured in some quarters: that women couldn't play, couldn't song write or if you were standing around a sound check, you were a girlfriend and not a musician.  So I felt that what I was doing, playing in a band and writing songs, however small and insignificant, had a smidgen of wider importance.

So when I started climbing, I was already sensitised to the idea that some people might think men and women can or should do different things.  I don't think I've ever met, or will ever meet a climber who would say that women can't lead climb.  But even without any explicit injunctions about behaviour, when I look around the crag, it's noticeable that where women are climbing, it is most often with men. And more often than not, men are leading and women are seconding.  While every individual is different, and climbing isn't a competition (at least for most of us), I felt a bit disappointed. I'm lucky - there are some amazing female climbers, who are pushing boundaries at the top end of climbing.  I've also got a hugely inspiring peer group of climbers through Twitter, many of whom are female climbers, way, way better than I'm ever likely to be, but who you'll never see in the adverts in climbing magazines.  So that smidgen of wider (self-)importance which I'd felt while playing in a band reared its head, and I finally articulated what I wanted - I want to learn to trad lead.

So that's the aim for this year.  I'm staying in one place, building up a great group of climbing buddies, and focusing on increasing my competence both as a second, but also importantly trying to learn to lead.  I started leading indoors while the weather was still miserable and the nights long; I was surprised at the impact of clipping bolts on my ability to do moves that were well within my physical capabilities.  I told my new climbing buddy, Tom, that I wanted to learn to lead on an early season trip to Birchen Edge, and outlined my ideal scenario.  The stars were aligned; Tom enjoys helping newbie climbers and seemed to be willing to be bossed around by me, so he found the place (Harborough Rocks), supplied the gear and provided the support and encouragement I need.

So it was that I found myself tiptoeing up the short limestone crag at Harborough, attempting to jam a piece of protection into the rock.  For my first lead, Tom had picked a nice straightforward route; he led and I seconded, noting gear placements and making sure I was happy with the moves. We then derigged the belay at the top, walked back to the bottom, and I led.  My gear placements weren't amazing - the first piece extracted itself and slid down the rope once I'd placed another piece above - but I felt focused, concentrated, and yet remarkably relaxed.  Another route followed (onsight, this time, so no practising beforehand) and another and another.  Four routes later I was grinning like the proverbial Cheshire Cat, somewhat tired but also exhilarated and grateful.   

Nich_at_top_of_first_lead

Woo! At the top of my first lead, feeling very pleased with myself

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This is the bit I'm less good at - placing gear. Must stop thinking 'oh sod it, it'll be fine. So long as I don't fall off'.
Pictures by Tom Harrison and Laura Ulyatt.

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]]> http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/1014908/Nich_on_Master_of_my_Domain__Cheakamus_Canyon_Aug_02_2010.jpg http://posterous.com/users/kem0OtCGPL Nicola Underdown nicolaunderdown Nicola Underdown Thu, 12 May 2011 02:20:46 -0700 A cycle in the Peak District http://nicolaunderdown.com/a-cycle-in-the-peak-district http://nicolaunderdown.com/a-cycle-in-the-peak-district A few weeks back, Dave and I had our first camping trip of the year, riding our bikes in the Peak District and Ordnance Survey were kind enough to publish my post as a guest blog on their site. You can check it out here: http://blog.ordnancesurvey.co.uk/2011/05/a-cycle-in-the-peak-district/

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]]> http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/1014908/Nich_on_Master_of_my_Domain__Cheakamus_Canyon_Aug_02_2010.jpg http://posterous.com/users/kem0OtCGPL Nicola Underdown nicolaunderdown Nicola Underdown Sat, 26 Mar 2011 01:51:06 -0700 Gear review: Smartwool Microweight LS Tshirt http://nicolaunderdown.com/gear-review-smartwool-microweight-ls-tshirt http://nicolaunderdown.com/gear-review-smartwool-microweight-ls-tshirt

I feel something of a fraud writing this review.  After all, it isn’t really a review, with technical specs outlined, comparisons made and a final judgement given.  No, this is really just an opportunity for me to look over some of the gear I’ve purchased in the last few years and highlight what about it is really, really good.  Besides, I still think of gear reviews as being for new models, new designs and new colours, but today’s review has a similarity to the Prana trousers love letter - this top is black.

 

I bought my Smartwool Microweight top back in 2009, and when the parcel arrived at the office, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to dig in and get a look; after all, online shopping often has a lucky dip aspect to it.  I’d also bought an Icebreaker long sleeve, and my colleagues were motivated to comment that I looked like I was going on an Arctic expedition (little did they know that I was actually heading off for a year in Canada!). But although my Smartwool top looked functional, it hardly caught my eye – black, long sleeves, a round neck and only the tiniest amount of detailing in the form of a small printed logo on the wrist.  Now I realise that the understated charm of the Smartwool top is its greatest strength.

 

Because it isn’t designed to draw attention to itself, the top is enormously versatile and very adaptable, whether you’re out doing something fun or just off to the pub.  It’s the lightest merino wool knit offered by Smartwool, so it doesn’t feel bulky or restrictive, and it packs small and rolls up tightly without becoming creased or crumpled.  When you wear a synthetic fabric base layer (a Helly Hansen, for example) the design shouts to all and sundry ‘this is not normal clothing!’; the Smartwool top remains mute, and while it is a perfect base layer, it also does a great impersonation of a plain black long sleeve top, suited to wearing under cardigans, sweaters or on its own with a pair of jeans.

 

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Here's me wearing it under a shirt for a casual game of table hockey (no puck, we used a die) at Bear on the Lake hostel, Nova Scotia


When you need the warmth of an extra layer, it’s perfect.  I’ve worn it over a synthetic vest top with fleece, down and waterproofs over for skiing, ice climbing, dog sledding and snowshoeing, and it’s ideal.  When we spent a few days in the wilderness hostels of the Rockies last September, it got pulled from the dirty laundry and worn the whole time, morning til night, and quite often through the night too.  You’ll be delighted to hear that merino wool’s most well known quality – odour resistance – is alive, well and working in this top! 

 

Algonquin_park_moose

Leaving Algonquin Park, it was cool and grey. The Smartwool (there's the logo on the wrist!) kept me warm, and kept the biting insects at bay too.


The top’s also the perfect weight and warmth for our current spring weather.  It’s my regular choice for trips to the climbing wall, out on a walk or on my bike, with just a waterproof or on its own if the sun is shining.  The knit is stretchy, making movement easy and with a longish body and nice wrist-covering sleeves, there are no awkward bits of midriff unintentionally on show.  And thankfully (given its popularity) it washes easily (the instructions say cold but I just put it on 40 degrees with everything else) and dries quickly. 

 

Garibaldi_lake

First extra layer on as we stopped at Garibaldi Lake and the temperature began to drop.


And after more than a year of intensive wash and wear, the top is holding up very well.  Perhaps it has stretched a little around the cuffs; there’s a small hole that appeared on one sleeve, which a stitch has sorted out; but the size is still right, the colour is still dark and the fabric hasn’t bobbled.  And if you, like me, find that wool is usually irritating to the skin, I can say that I haven’t had any problems wearing the Smartwool – it doesn’t make me itch and I can happily wear it next to my skin without issues.  Although all of the merino wool tops manufactured as part of this generation of natural material baselayers claim to be easy on the skin, I’m definitely happiest with the Smartwool – it’s reliably non-itchy, unlike the Icebreaker which sometimes causes a reaction.  So whatever Smartwool are doing, it’s working! I hope you're able to find some of their clothing and give it a go.

 

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]]> http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/1014908/Nich_on_Master_of_my_Domain__Cheakamus_Canyon_Aug_02_2010.jpg http://posterous.com/users/kem0OtCGPL Nicola Underdown nicolaunderdown Nicola Underdown Thu, 17 Mar 2011 09:36:06 -0700 What's a girl to do? http://nicolaunderdown.com/whats-a-girl-to-do http://nicolaunderdown.com/whats-a-girl-to-do Since my last post, my biking activities have been significantly curtailed, by the world's lengthiest puncture repair/ inner tube replacement process - and even after finally getting back on the bike, technical issues continue (evidenced by a slightly terrifying experience involving a seized wheel whilst crossing the road in front of a speeding van).  So, with biking adventures temporarily on hold, here's what I've been doing.

A couple of weeks ago, a friend and I decided to head to 'the most remote village in the East Midlands' for a hike.  Burrough on the Hill is tucked into a corner of Leicestershire, and our walk took us from the village, up to an Iron Age hillfort and across possibly the muddiest field in the region.  It was 8 miles of walking in mud-platform shoes, and even now, after stomping, scraping and paddling in puddles, my walking shoes make me look like a proper hobo.

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Shortly afterwards, I introduced my mum to the delights of England's smallest county with a walk round Rutland Water.  It was cold and wet, and spring felt quite a way away.

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Normanton Church, Rutland Water. Picture by Dave

Spring has officially sprung, though, so I've been out climbing (again! twice in one year and it's only March!) at Birchen Edge, and hiking in Wales (in rather windy conditions).

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Me at the foot of Birchen Edge. Picture by Tom Harrison

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Picture by Dave

And yesterday I did my bit for the walking community, going out to survey the paths emanating from grid square SK5234 (actually the middle of the river Trent) on behalf of the Ramblers' Association's 'Mystery Walkers' project.  Walking two miles from your allotted square, you report on the state of the paths and help the Rambers' Association to keep up to date with what's happening on the ground.  If you can spare an afternoon (and can read a map - I'm so metricated, I had to get a tape measure out to find a 2 *mile* walk), why not sign up?

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Spring has sprung at Attenborough Nature reserve

But life hasn't been one long round of outdoors fun.  Actually, it has, but I've slotted a bit of writing in too.  It's not what I'd call work, but hey, once I win the lottery, I'll have the perfect life!

I previewed the climbing films that were showing at the Sheffield Adventure Film Festival for Rock Climbing UK, and then wrote up my experience of Andy Kirkpatrick's new climbing talk.  

I followed that up with an interview with Becky Bellworthy - at 19 years old, she hopes to become the youngest British female to summit Everest.  Blimey, at 19 it was all I could do to hold down a temping job before sloping off for an entirely traditional gap year.  

Coming up, I've got a trip back over to Rutland, to try out the dry tooling options - especially pertinent now that the UK winter climbing season is drawing to a close.  I've also got a couple of gear reviews up my sleeve (can you guess what I'll be reviewing?) and hopefully an adventure or two with the ever-inspiring Manifesto K.  We might even make a dash for some last minute snow - assuming the Fiesta could make it to the Alps.   Happy adventuring - and bring on that hour change!

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]]> http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/1014908/Nich_on_Master_of_my_Domain__Cheakamus_Canyon_Aug_02_2010.jpg http://posterous.com/users/kem0OtCGPL Nicola Underdown nicolaunderdown Nicola Underdown Sun, 20 Feb 2011 13:41:21 -0800 Where does national bike route six go? http://nicolaunderdown.com/where-does-national-bike-route-six-go http://nicolaunderdown.com/where-does-national-bike-route-six-go Ever since we moved into our house, I've been curious about the sign at the bottom of the street.  Down by the railway line which separates our road from the Rylands area beyond, there's a small blue sign indicating a cut through to the next street; the blue sign has a picture of a white bicycle, and the number six in a red box.  But what did it mean?  

Some time later, when I started a job in Nottingham and could commute by bike, I began to cycle to work, and my route had me following that sign.  But as I turned off the canal towpath and headed uphill towards my office, the route carried on without me.  And from the bottom of our street, the sign pointed in the opposite direction too.  So what is it?  And where does it go?

It turns out that national cycle route six connects two of the railway cities of England - Derby and York.  It's part of a wider network which criss crosses the whole country, with the Derby-York section being a mere 194 miles.  It also swings north from Nottingham up past Clumber Park, although in something of an irony, I didn't ride any of it on my trip there from Mansfield a couple of weeks ago.  Being the kind of person I am, my first instinct was to try and work out whether it would be possible to ride the whole thing at some point.  (I've got form in this area; when I lived in Wollaton, a long distance walking trail, the Robin Hood Way, came along my street and I started trying to walk the whole thing in sections before deciding that linear walking required more planning and public transport than I was interested in).  In any case, I'm a reasonable person so I decided to explore a bit of the cycle route before making any firm plans.  I sat down with a trusty OS map and decided to make Elvaston Castle my first objective - a perfect midweek mini adventure.

Elvaston Castle is a house and country park on the outskirts of Derby, and owned by the local authority.  The two hundred acres of grounds were originally a monastery but after receiving Henry VIII's unwelcome attentions, it became a private estate.  A manor house, part of which is still visible, was built in 1633, with 19th century alterations.  However, the building is now in something of a state of disrepair and Derbyshire County Council is trying to sell off the grade II* listed building and its grounds as it can no longer afford to keep it up.  Needless to say, I've only found this out since my return - before I left, I established that a) Elvaston Castle is open to the public b) it costs to park (£1!) but is otherwise free, and c) it has a cafe and loos.  That was all I needed for it to be a sensible target.

The day was grey and overcast as I set my phone to track my GPS signal and finally left the house.  I'd packed the map but thankfully, Nottinghamshire County Council have been generous with their signage, and I simply followed the little blue signs as I wended my way off through Chilwell, Toton and into Long Eaton.  Crossing the border into Derbyshire, I started to discover things that I'd never seen, despite driving past for years.  This sculpture is a carved seat, surmounted by a figure riding a penny farthing; sadly the gate's locked, so you can't actually sit on the seat.

I've often complained that the area in which I live is a bit flat for my liking - however, once you're on a bike, you suddenly become grateful for the fact that you're not climbing or descending much at all.  I soon left the town behind, then the villages, and once past Breaston I was out amongst the fields on a lovely flat track.  Although the weather was chilly and a bit cheerless, I breathed a sigh of relief to be amongst fields and trees.  

This is the kind of signage you get once you're no longer on the main road.

After a small detour around the edge of Borrowash (alongside a canal, and on the only section of route which was a bit bumpy), I coasted down a hill and cut off the cycle route, onto the country lane which brought me to Elvaston Castle Country Park itself.  I'd been taking my time en route, stopping regularly to check the map or take a picture, and by the time I arrived, I was absolutely famished.  I wheeled my way across the muddy lawns and reclined on a bench to eat my picnic.

You can see the 1633 manor on the right, with the newer addition on the left, and a delightful bicycle to the front.

The park itself seemed quiet (unsurprisingly for a weekday in February) but the tea room was teeming with people and after demolishing my sandwich, I treated myself to a scone.  It wasn't bad though perhaps a bit too almondy for my liking.  The tea room is actually the only section of the castle which you can get into for the majority of the year, and it gives few clues as to what the rest of the building might be like.

Before long, I was heading back to retrace my steps home.  Despite enjoying my quick visit, I was feeling a bit contrary - not only can you not go inside the house, but the whole estate was scattered with signs asking you not to do things - don't walk on the grass, don't play in the hedges, don't climb the trees.  It seems somehow symptomatic of a disconnection which is being fostered between people and places; and maybe that's why the amount of litter in the hedgerows, on paths and in canals and parks comes as such a shock to me.  If people can't be immersed in a place, perhaps they don't feel any responsibility towards it?  

In any case, my trip home felt very swift - perhaps that's just compared to my return from Clumber Park in the wind - and even with a flat tyre brewing, I was back home with a sense of a few hours well spent.  It's given me the confidence to consider cycling further afield, so it's back to the map.

Here's my route (roughly - I forgot to turn the GPS on to begin with):

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]]> http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/1014908/Nich_on_Master_of_my_Domain__Cheakamus_Canyon_Aug_02_2010.jpg http://posterous.com/users/kem0OtCGPL Nicola Underdown nicolaunderdown Nicola Underdown Mon, 14 Feb 2011 06:10:00 -0800 A love letter http://nicolaunderdown.com/a-love-letter http://nicolaunderdown.com/a-love-letter

It's Valentine's Day.  For every unabashed declaration of love, there is a corresponding cynic decrying the commercialisation of the day with its cards, chocolates and twee teddy bears.  So, here's my love letter - it's to my PrAna trousers!

This isn't a standard gear review - it's definitely a swooning, lovelorn look at a purchase that turned out better than I could ever have imagined.  Last Easter, during a trip back to the UK, I became conscious that my limited travelling wardrobe had a gap - and so, given my impatience for the selection of women's clothing in outdoor shops, I took a chance and bought this pair of trousers online through Gear for Girls.  They rapidly became indispensable and even now are elbowing other items of clothing out of contention; they'd definitely be coming with me to a desert island, despite being black.

So, what makes them so great?  Well, I've never thought of myself as fashion conscious.  And anyone who has met me in the flesh will testify to this.  But when it comes to buying gear suitable for the great outdoors, some kind of mass sight impairment seems to afflict the designers and purchasers of women's trousers.  I wouldn't normally wear a high waisted, tapered leg, with extra pleats to make sure my bum looks especially large - so why would I want to wear trousers like that when I'm out and about?  Especially given the likelihood of photos being taken during whatever activity I might be enjoying.  These PrAna pants (we'll give them that, they're American) successfully look like a normal pair of trousers; in fact, the cut is just like a pair of jeans, with a lowish waist, proper waistband and actual pockets.  The leg is straight, and the length is perfect for me (5'5", if you're interested), with a normal cut around the ankle - perhaps a bit breezy if the wind is strong, but perfect to fit over boots or trainers.

The fabric is stretchy, providing a range of movement whatever your activity, and also washes and dries quickly.  With nothing much in the way of visible branding, excellent snag resistance and looking smartish even when dried overnight, the trousers have been pressed into use for work - a valuable commodity when living out of a small bag.  And when I've worn them in colder weather (often with a pair of thermal tights), the snow simply brushes off.  Here's me wearing them on a snowshoe trip up to Dog Mountain, near Vancouver:

These trousers get pulled out whenever I climb (indoors or out), walk, bike (like on the trip a week or so ago to Clumber Park, with bike shorts under), snowshoe or do anything which requires me to leave my usual uniform of jeans behind.  With a flattering but unobtrusive cut, they don't draw attention, and that's why they deserve this love letter.  I feel less like I am sacrificing my modicum of style to practicality when I wear these; my only concern is what I'm going to do when they inevitably wear out!

Hiking into the Grand Canyon in them.

Walking up a Welsh hill in them, with gaiters over.

Cycling in them with bike shorts underneath. What did I say about not being fashionable?

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]]> http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/1014908/Nich_on_Master_of_my_Domain__Cheakamus_Canyon_Aug_02_2010.jpg http://posterous.com/users/kem0OtCGPL Nicola Underdown nicolaunderdown Nicola Underdown Thu, 10 Feb 2011 05:13:42 -0800 News from the Parish Noticeboard http://nicolaunderdown.com/news-from-the-parish-noticeboard http://nicolaunderdown.com/news-from-the-parish-noticeboard For those who I haven't excitedly blurted this out to already - I've recently become a contributor at Rock Climbing UK.  I recently interviewed Ian Parnell, joint editor of Climb magazine, reviewed The Season and will be doing some more stuff with them over the coming months.  I'll keep you posted!

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]]> http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/1014908/Nich_on_Master_of_my_Domain__Cheakamus_Canyon_Aug_02_2010.jpg http://posterous.com/users/kem0OtCGPL Nicola Underdown nicolaunderdown Nicola Underdown Wed, 09 Feb 2011 02:39:00 -0800 A micro-adventure: biking to Clumber Park http://nicolaunderdown.com/a-micro-adventure-biking-to-clumber-park http://nicolaunderdown.com/a-micro-adventure-biking-to-clumber-park

You know how usually my posts are accompanied by beautiful pictures in glorious technicolor? Well, you'll just have to do without those today.  Dave didn't come on my micro-adventure, and I was too busy biking to get many (any?) pictures!  

A few weeks ago, I met up with my friend Kate Lockhart.  Kate's a serious outdoors girl, not least because she cycles the forty mile round trip from her home in Mansfield, to work in Ruddington (outside Nottingham) at least a couple of times a week.  We were discussing plans to do adventurous things, and later I got a message on Twitter - 'planA bike to Clumber Pk!'.  I was full of misplaced confidence in my own fitness, and not really knowing where Clumber Park was, I agreed without hesitation.

Micro-adventures are something I've been reading about for a few months - the term was proposed by Alastair Humphreys, who has previously cycled round the world; he wanted to show that it is possible to do something interesting, challenging and exciting without needing it to be epic or involve frostbite!  And more recently, a climber whose blog I read (Eliz Climbs) started writing about her attempts to have a tiny adventure every week - no need for vast wads of cash, intercontinental travel or world record breaking activities.  With the comedown from Canada still fresh, I wanted to try and plan a few mini adventures of my own.

And so it was that, on a very windy day, I jammed my 'newly purchased on eBay' bike into the boot of my car and headed up to Mansfield.  I was slightly disbelieving that we'd actually bike, but having given Kate a chance to marvel at my bike (its inordinate age, how heavy it is, and how much stuff on it needs replacing i.e. all of it) we swooped through Mansfield and out onto the A60.  Here's our route:

 


View Larger Map

Despite only having five gears, I was feeling confident as the route seemed pretty flat, and cycling with someone who knows the area means, like skiing with a guide, that you don't have to focus on map-reading or navigation, you can just focus on the motions.  All very necessary, given it was my first time cycling with drop handlebars, and with the gear changer somewhere between my knees.  

If ever you want to see the damage that a cold winter and cuts to local authority money can do to the roads, try getting out on a bike in early February!  The potholes were immense, and I was grateful to peel off the A60 and onto the smaller roads as we approached the park itself.  A former country estate (and with the house no longer standing), Clumber Park has 3,800 acres of greenery, with cycling routes, a walled kitchen garden and a manmade lake to enjoy.  A flash of snowdrops in the hedgerow just outside the park brought a smile to my face, and although the wind was strong, the temperature was rather balmy - spring is on its way!  We rode into the park, admiring the avenue of limes (here's a picture that I didn't take):

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Photo by Lincolnian - Brian (BUSY) on Flickr's Creative Commons

As Kate nobly bought us hot chocolate and packets of crisps, another visitor asked "have you ridden a long way?".  I had no idea, so said "Er, from Mansfield" and was gratified that he seemed to think that was a long way!  It's about 12 miles, it turns out, but I was feeling good and only once we started back did I realise quite how much the tailwind had helped on the way there.  Having spent most of the ride out in the hardest gear, I was rapidly left in Kate's wake as I struggled into the wind in the lowest gear.  

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Ah, an innocent smile as I'm thinking that the hard work has been done! Photo by Kate.

The wind increased, gusting to around 55mph, and on our final approach to Mansfield, I was beaten - with legs no longer obeying, we got off and pushed the bikes for the last mile.  I can honestly say it was probably as quick as I would have been on a bike!  And selfishly, it was a great chance to chat with Kate, talking about the challenges that places like Mansfield and its surrounding towns face as the recession bites, and the prosperity once enjoyed by the town ebbs away.

Despite my realisation of how far I have to go to regain something like fitness, the ride was really enjoyable and definitely felt like I'd achieved something with my Sunday.  I rewarded myself with an enormous dinner and a bath, before falling into a deep and satisfying sleep.  Now, all I need is a nice new bike and I'll be off...

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]]> http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/1014908/Nich_on_Master_of_my_Domain__Cheakamus_Canyon_Aug_02_2010.jpg http://posterous.com/users/kem0OtCGPL Nicola Underdown nicolaunderdown Nicola Underdown Wed, 02 Feb 2011 07:44:46 -0800 Holy moly, it's February already! A tale of our day trip to Moel Siabod http://nicolaunderdown.com/holy-moly-its-february-already-a-tale-of-our http://nicolaunderdown.com/holy-moly-its-february-already-a-tale-of-our Oh boy, am I getting withdrawal symptoms!  It's more than a month now since we packed up our ludicrously over-stuffed bags and hauled ourselves to YVR airport for our final trip back to the UK, the expired visa hanging limply from the pages of our passports.  Christmas and New Year passed in a blur, and a new kind of normality is settling over life in the English Midlands.  We've been returning to work (Dave) and looking for gainful employment (me); reverting to having a whole house to ourselves (and to heat); repairing or getting rid of the stuff damaged in the great storeroom flood of 2010; and getting together with friends and family.  All very worthwhile but the need to be in the great outdoors lingers on.  Accordingly, one weekend we decided to go all Canadian, drive for a few hours and walk up a shapely hill.

Now, I realise that 'walking up the shapely hill' sounds like a terrible euphemism - I'm not sure for what, but I don't want to think about it too much in any case.  In fact, it was nearly 'hiking up the scabby hill' due to the wikipedia entry for Moel Siabod being contradictory about how the welsh name translates - both options are given.  In any case, having seen Moel Siabod at sunset, I'm prepared to defend her shapely honour, and I saw nothing scabby [insert whatever pejorative Welsh joke you may wish to here].

Shapely hill at sunset.

Anyway, the plan to climb Moel Siabod was formulated based on a number of factors.  Number one - it's accessible.  Moel Siabod is easily reached from the A5 between Betws Y Coed and Capel Curig, rather than being nestled deep within Snowdonia.  Number two - with few hours of daylight during January, it seemed sensible to pick a shortish walk, especially as Welsh hills also offer that deeply satisfying sense of having reached a peak, complete with trig point.  On this note, I'll mention that walking in the immediate vicinity of our house drives both Dave and I to distraction as you mostly plod around fields with very little elevation gain or loss.  And number three - it's on a list.  I know, I know, hiking is about being immersed in the natural world and not just ticking items off a list.  But when you could try and hike anywhere between here and the Scottish Borders, it is reassuring to have a project or general aim.  Moel Siabod features in the Trail magazine Top 100 peaks and that's good enough for me at this point.

Using our famed organisational approach (reluctantly crawling out of bed; gratefully accepting an offer of sandwiches from my mum; setting off with a vague notion of general direction), we left the Cheshire Plain and approached North Wales.  Despite an early altercation with the Tom Tom (it has no notion of what a 'scenic route' might entail) we arrived safely at our starting point, gazed in awe at the kayakers braving the chilly waters of the river over which we crossed, and started the climb up Moel Siabod.  The hill has a really attractive pyramid shape, giving it a good deal of prominence and an actual climb.  Needless to say, I have more enthusiasm for the uphill now, looking back on it, than I did at the time!

We rose above the cloud level, finding ice and frozen ground all round us.  It rapidly became apparent how cold it had remained at that level when Dave attempted to break the thick glaze of solid ice on the first lake we passed, only for the rock to bounce and skid away to join a collection of others hefted onto the surface by passing walkers.  It was also a markedly different experience to be walking on unwooded, rusty coloured hillsides, after a year of hiking amongst trees.

After a lunch stop (sheltered amongst the ruins of a slate mine; now that would be an interesting commute to work), we started clambering up the ridge towards the summit.  All routes involve some scrambling but Dave decided we should get onto the rocks nice and early; I must admit, spotting the detritus of climbers (a harness buckle, and scratches from crampons and axes) on our route did make me a little hesitant, but we made it up without incident.  That said, navigation once you're scrambling on the ridge was a little tricky - I kept losing sight of the summit and ending up looking down a long drop back towards the plateau under the ridge...

Yup, this is what our route looked like.

The wind was howling as we reached the cold and exposed summit trig point, so I gave thanks we'd eaten our lunch further down, and we rapidly walked the summit ridge before descending in a north westerly direction and picking a path back towards our initial ascent route.  

Nice view across to Snowdon from the summit.

Standing still very briefly on the chilly summit ridge.

As we headed back towards the car, we were treated to a beautiful show of sunlight flashing across the hills surrounding us.  It is these experiences, the sense of transcending your own existence and seeing an almost immutable scene, which make the early start, the long drive and the uphill slog worthwhile.

Ice encrusted grasses by a tiny mountain stream.

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]]> http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/1014908/Nich_on_Master_of_my_Domain__Cheakamus_Canyon_Aug_02_2010.jpg http://posterous.com/users/kem0OtCGPL Nicola Underdown nicolaunderdown Nicola Underdown Sat, 08 Jan 2011 13:33:51 -0800 So what's Canada like, then? http://nicolaunderdown.com/so-whats-canada-like-then http://nicolaunderdown.com/so-whats-canada-like-then

Since our return to Britain in the last days of 2010, the question I’ve heard most has undoubtedly been “what’s Canada like?” or more simply, “how’s Canada?”

Needless to say, this is a tough question to answer.  How to summarise a year’s worth of exploration, new experiences and adventures?  And of course, not everyone really wants to know what you’ve been up to.  So – what is Canada like?

Well, despite what Canadians might want you to believe, it’s a bit like the USA.  The roads are wide and the trucks are big.  But Canadians are friendly, polite and helpful (as I’m sure many Americans are too, before you start bristling.  You just don’t tend to meet those Americans are border crossings and entry points). 

Canada’s urban. We’ve cheerfully drunk endless pints of Molson Canadian in Vancouver, Toronto, Montreal, Halifax and Calgary.  We’ve even had nicer drinks in other towns.  But Canada also does wilderness in a way unsurpassed by other countries, and unimaginable to many on this intensely-packed island.  I certainly don’t subscribe to the scare-mongering right-wing cries of the Daily Mail that Britain’s “full” but it definitely feels that the roads and towns are busy.  And for many of the Canadians we met in places outside the main cities (particularly during our jaunt to the wilderness hostels of the Rockies), it was unthinkable that there are few places in mainland Britain without cellphone coverage.  Canadians really know how to do ‘getting away from it all’ and as a consequence, they have higher expectations of self-reliance for those who spend time outside the urban areas.

Canada’s hot, as we discovered during heatwaves in Montreal and Toronto.  We had our first dip in freshwater at Lac Tremblant when the snow on the hillside belied the temperatures of over 30 degrees Celsius (and when the heat of the day tricked you into thinking the lac might be above 5 degrees, which it wasn’t).  We’ve swum in fresh and salt water all over the country as Canada’s amazing water quality makes swimming in rivers and lakes positively inviting.  We’ve reclined on the sand at Second Beach in Vancouver, soaking up some glorious rays.  But Canada’s also cold, as we found during the days we spent snowshoeing, cross-country skiing and snowboarding.  We’ve worn thermals and skiwear, hats and helmets to keep off temperatures of around minus 20, and heard tales from friends in Banff, Edmonton and Regina of temperatures dipping well below that.  We’ve even crunched across snow in the middle of summer in the high alpine when climbing Black Tusk.

But most of all, Canada’s big.  It’s the second biggest country on earth, comfortably the size of a continent, and it has the diversity you’d expect in a place that big.  There are plenty of provinces we didn’t get to see: Labrador and Newfoundland; Prince Edward Island; Saskatchewan and Manitoba; and all of the northern territories and provinces.  But we did see some of Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Quebec, Ontario, Alberta and British Columbia, from our trips to Vancouver Island, out to the Cabot Trail and across the Rockies (a number of times).  Sometimes I remembered to count the miles or kilometres but by the end of the year, we’d stopped being amazed by big distances and Dave had started saying things like “it’s not far, it’s only six hours drive”.  I had to remind myself that spending a whole day skiing (during our last trip to Big White, Revelstoke and Lake Louise) followed by 5 or 6 hours of driving was bound to be tiring.  More often than not, we encountered little in the way of traffic jams, so assuming we were able to navigate successfully (with our trusty Lonely Planet and tourist office maps, and occasional forays to Google Maps) the journey would take as long as predicted, and no longer.  Wonder what the Daily Mail would make of that?

So, how’s Canada? Amazing, beguiling, beautiful, frustrating and inviting.  Or, if you’ve only got 5 minutes – fine.

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]]> http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/1014908/Nich_on_Master_of_my_Domain__Cheakamus_Canyon_Aug_02_2010.jpg http://posterous.com/users/kem0OtCGPL Nicola Underdown nicolaunderdown Nicola Underdown Tue, 07 Dec 2010 21:11:03 -0800 I hear there's been a bit of snow in Britain... http://nicolaunderdown.com/i-hear-theres-been-a-bit-of-snow-in-britain http://nicolaunderdown.com/i-hear-theres-been-a-bit-of-snow-in-britain ... so I thought I'd share what we've been doing in the Canadian snow!  As you might imagine, Canada takes the whole snow thing rather in its stride, even though Vancouver itself doesn't often get more than a dusting.  And after last winter's warmth and lack of snow (remembering the stories of snow being trucked or helicoptered to Olympic venues), we weren't sure we'd see any in the city at all.  However, during our trip to Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon, November's interminable rain turned to snow and we heard tales of slush, bus crashes, transport chaos and all the bad news that Britain offers when similarly afflicted.  That said, Flickr, Facebook and Twitter were evidence of the fact that Canadians were getting out and enjoying the snow.

As we waited for the local bus which marked the final leg of our journey back to Vancouver from Las Vegas, a few flakes fluttered down, illuminated by the street light.  The next morning, it soon became apparent why our borrowed apartment had got so cold overnight: Vancouver was hiding under 3 or 4 inches of snow!  

Snow_in_the_street

This is me locking up on our way out to move house by bus in the snow. This is a garage; the flat is above the car parking space! Suffice to say we're in a *nice* area!

Nich_wading_through_snow_in_th

I'm 31 and yet still, if given the opportunity, I'll go and prance in a bit of untouched snow

Now, despite all the gloom of the news bulletins, Canadian mostly just put their winter tyres on their cars (or chains if they're in the middle of nowhere or drive a massive truck), shovel the pavement outside their house (legal requirement, apparently) and swap their rubber boots (never call them wellies, you get funny looks) for winter boots.

Rubber_boots

Off with the rubber boots, worn in November's rain...

Winter_boots

... and on with the winter boots, for a bit more warmth and traction.

All this early snow meant I was keen to get out on snowshoes again.  Earlier this year we ended up at Mount Seymour on the trails they groom within the resort, but this year, insider knowledge (a.k.a. Rebecca Hardie, outdoor adventurer of the year) took us up and into the provincial park adjoining the resort, to climb Dog Mountain.  It was a popular destination for an early winter outing and we had a great time trekking the 2.5km trail (with a few diversions into the deep powder) and back again.  Despite the trail being well prepared, it's surprisingly tiring and I was grateful for the tea and cake we refreshed ourselves with as darkness fell.

Nich_amongst_the_frozen_forest

On the way up the trail, diverting through an amazing forest of bent and bowed frozen trees...

Nich_on_the_top_of_dog_mountai

And looking very pleased with myself on the top of Dog Mountain. I think I'm happy that I'm about to eat my sandwich, I was starving.

Given the amount of snow that the mountains around Vancouver have received, we decided to get out and get a bit of skiing/boarding while we had a few days off with no plans in town.  During the Olympics last year, Cypress Mountain was a virtual no-go zone so we took the opportunity to get into the hills above West Vancouver and try a few runs.  An early start saw us on the resort bus at 7.45am; no public transport goes to Cypress, so you're over a barrel to the tune of $23 each.  We arrived into the resort after 9am and having hired some skis (for me) and bought our passes, we hit the slopes just before 10am.  Not something that we feel Nottingham is ever likely to offer its residents...

The cloud was low over the hills so sadly we missed out on the famed views down towards the city, though we did catch a glimpse of the Howe Sound and Bowen Island during a break in the fog.  Conditions were icy with much of the resort yet to fully open or be groomed, and the lights were on all day to try and compensate for the incredibly flat light, which made lumps and bumps invisible.  Possibly the least enjoyable moment of the day was during an attempt to find a piste (later found to be closed) with minimal visibility and non-existent signposting; Dave headed off, coping with moguls the size of termite mounds on a rapidly steepening slope while I did the cowardly thing and clambered sideways on my skis until I found a more bearable piste.  I didn't do a great job of communicating this to Dave and he graciously awaited my arrival at his stopping point for a good 15 minutes, until he realised I wasn't coming.  Without our usual walkie talkies, we had to resort to mobile phones to establish that neither of us were dead or seriously injured.  At least there was a happy ending on this occasion but it did provide the lowlight of the day.

Dave_at_the_olympic_rings_cypr

Dave contemplates the long ride back to town while his wife photographs him with one knee in the snow

Cypress was also the venue for another venture into winter sports; cross country skiing.  I'd often sat on a ski lift in European resorts, admiring the beautifully carved parallel lines of the cross country ski route, and had wanted to have a go during our first winter here.  All I knew about it was that you had to be old (preferably over 60) and wear a silly hat (you know the ones, the seam goes front to back creating three little weird peaks. I'm fairly sure my dad knows what I'm talking about, I remember him wearing one).  Dave's entire knowledge of the sport came from working on the Olympic and Paralympic Games, which meant he assumed it was the hardest sport ever, since all competitors seemingly vomited as soon as they crossed the finish line.  Accordingly, he refused to have anything to do with my plans and it was left to outdoors buddy Rebecca to accompany me back up the hill and out on some ludicrously skinny skis.

Sometimes it is refreshing to have to learn something completely from scratch.  Sometimes, however, it is a complete pain to have to learn how to attach the boots (flimsy and fabric) to the binding on the ski, particularly since it's cold now you've taken your gloves off to have a fiddle at it.  I was amazed at how difficult I found it to get any sort of flow or rhythm as I laboured up the slopes, easily overtaken by the children (turns out you don't have to be old, though they did wear silly hats).  The experience itself alternated between hard work (ungainly clambering uphill, wondering if I can stay in the lovely parallel tracks or if I have to herringbone it) and utterly terrifying - gliding downhill, unable to lift my skis out of the tracks to control my speed, rapidly gathering speed and simply hoping I don't wipe out or encounter an obstacle.  This terror reached its apogee on our last run in, down an untracked and fairly wide (though fairly steep, for a beginner) piste which was busy with traffic.  In my attempt to retain my patchy snowplough, and avoid the numerous other beginners, I lost control, skidded down the slope and threw myself to the ground.  I managed not to take out the unimpressed woman who I reached, although my skis did end up over hers - thankfully, one of us knew what they were doing and remained upright.  All the way back down the winding road to town I chuckled as I remembered what a wally I must have looked like.  I also shifted uncomfortably in my seat as I realised where exactly I was going to be bruised.

Nich_and_becca_x_country_skiin

My partner in crime, ninja snowshoer Rebecca and I simultaneously remain upright on cross country skis!

Our most recent snowy outing was yesterday up to Whistler.  We've been watching weather reports like hawks as we've planned to head towards British Columbia's interior to check out the 'Powder Highway' area; however, Whistler is only two hours down the road and has had twice as much snow so with yet another early morning under our belts (don't worry, we're not making a habit of it) we set off down the stunning Sea to Sky highway.  The Stawamus Chief in Squamish was sprinkled with snow and icicles lined the roadside.  In Whistler village, the temperature was around freezing and the snow of the previous few days had compacted pretty nicely, providing us with glorious conditions under a blue sky.  Best of all (for me), a second hand pair of skis identical to the ones I loved last winter were procured for a bargain price! I spent the day with an enormous grin on my face, feeling the closest I've ever felt to flying.  Even as the sky darkened with the clouds of impending snow, and the icy patches on the slopes surfaced, I couldn't stop smiling, and the empty pistes meant I could fly down to lifts without queues and get in as many runs as possible.  It was a day that felt like a real stolen pleasure.  If only the snow in Britain could provide the same happiness to its residents.

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]]> http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/1014908/Nich_on_Master_of_my_Domain__Cheakamus_Canyon_Aug_02_2010.jpg http://posterous.com/users/kem0OtCGPL Nicola Underdown nicolaunderdown Nicola Underdown Tue, 30 Nov 2010 20:53:10 -0800 Exploring America's grandest tourist attractions http://nicolaunderdown.com/exploring-americas-grandest-tourist-attractio http://nicolaunderdown.com/exploring-americas-grandest-tourist-attractio

When you think of the Grand Canyon, what springs to mind? Perhaps it’s a scene from Roadrunner, as the ‘meep meep’ bird outwits Wile Coyote once again, darting amongst the red rocks and sandy canyons of the desert.  Perhaps you think of cacti, extreme heat, the grandeur of the scenery stretching for miles.

I’m guessing you don’t think of this:

Yes folks, though you might not believe it given the almost-complete whiteout behind me, that’s the Grand Canyon in winter.

The trip to the Grand Canyon was always going to be the main attraction of our visit to the States.  Having decided not to take on the epic road trip and instead confined ourselves to a short holiday in search of warmth and sunshine, we flew to Las Vegas to escape the rainy, grey time in Vancouver.  As Dave accurately describes, we goggled at the size, the loudness, the brightness and the general over-the-top-ness of Vegas.  Then we escaped on Highway 93 towards the Arizona border.

En route was a stop at the impressive Hoover Dam, as recommended by my American correspondent, Mike.  Stretching across a narrow but deep chasm of the Colorado River on the border of Nevada and Arizona, the dam was built in the 1930s and boasts clean Art Deco lines and aspirational decoration on a par with the BBC’s motto of around the same time: “Nation Shall Speak Peace Unto Nation”.  Damming the Colorado River had unforeseen environmental consequences but also produced safe, clean and sustainable electricity for the growing cities around it. It also proves a jaw-dropping example of early 20th century engineering.

The view from the new bypass bridge downstream

Having said that, the bridge was identified as a possible terrorist target after the attacks on September 11th, and the new bypass bridge (already needed by the volume of traffic seeking to cross the river) was rapidly built, opening in October this year.  This actually provides by far the best view of the dam and gives a sense of why it is such a recognised national monument.

Unlike some of the other borders we’ve crossed this year (I’m looking at you, New Brunswick), Arizona and Nevada are happy to remind you that you lose an hour by crossing from Las Vegas towards Flagstaff (in fact, a feature of the Hoover Dam are the two clocks showing the time in each state).  After an early sunset in Las Vegas, we were happy to be travelling to a state with some extra daylight.  Nevertheless, the distances in North America continue to amaze us and the sun sank behind the horizon as we were still driving through the flat, arid landscape of western Arizona.  By the time we arrived in Grand Canyon village, the light was long gone and we had no idea of the visual spectacle awaiting us.

The next morning we leapt out of bed, ready to see the sun rise over one of the natural wonders of the world.  We hightailed it to the rim, only to find… nothing.  Nada.  Not a sausage.  The snow was falling, the wind whipped at the fog lying over the canyon and we shivered in the grey light as we walked part of the trail through the village, looking out hopefully for a view to make our early start worthwhile.  After a couple of hours we gave up and retreated indoors for a hot breakfast.

Having put on all the clothing we could muster, we agreed to hike down into the canyon on the Bright Angel Trail, in the hope of getting out of the wind and snow, and perhaps even dropping below the cloud line.  The path was well-worn and muddy; no worries about getting lost here.

One of the most popular ways to experience the Grand Canyon is by mule; some of the earliest visitors to the canyon travelled this way and it retains a cowboy appeal.  Until we bumped into them on the trail, I’d never really realised quite how big a mule is, and also how unlikely it is to respond to a cry of “Yah, mule, yah!”.

Eventually the fog thinned, the snow became rain, and we were finally able to see some of the views that make this area what it is.  Every switchback brought a new view, and we descended as far as the three-mile resthouse before deciding to start our climb back out.  The national park strongly discourages those who want to hike to the river’s edge and back in one day, citing excessive temperature as a reason (ha!) but having not taken any lunch with us, our tummies were rumbling and the motivation to ascend quickly was strong.

Dave at the lowest point we reached in the canyon

By midday, the temperature had risen and it was practically balmy (I actually took my woolly hat off).  We were still strafed by the odd passing shower but it did have the unexpected happy outcome of providing some of the most spectacular pictures, complete with rainbows.

After our hike out, it was a shock to the system to return to the windswept and exposed rim trail.  We rapidly demolished the most enormous lunch we could find and headed out on one of the free shuttle buses that ply a route up to the western edge of the South Rim area.  The longer we spent on the bus, the less keen I became to get off and before we could make a decision to leap out and see the sights, the order came through to the bus driver to return to the village, picking up any passengers he spotted along the way.  The weather was simply too severe.  We decided to be satisfied with our earlier 6 mile hike and slunk indoors, hoping for better weather.

The next morning, Dave bravely decided to try and see sunrise again.  Although the cloud meant that once again there wasn’t much to see, the snow overnight (3 inches in places) meant that the red rocks and shale piles were dusted with an unfamiliar white gleam. 

We spent the morning heading out on the trails we only glimpsed from the bus the day before, before driving (very carefully) along the snowy roads towards the eastern end of the South Rim park.  The sky cleared to a limpid blue and the sun caught the crystal-gleam of the snow, providing the most spectacular scenery.

The trip had provided the diametric opposite to the charms of Vegas: stunning scenery, fresh air, hiking and a chance to see the awe-inspiring natural attractions at which North America excels.  Thus refreshed, we returned to the city of sin.

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]]> http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/1014908/Nich_on_Master_of_my_Domain__Cheakamus_Canyon_Aug_02_2010.jpg http://posterous.com/users/kem0OtCGPL Nicola Underdown nicolaunderdown Nicola Underdown Mon, 08 Nov 2010 17:47:00 -0800 Exploring the mountains of the Pacific Northwest http://nicolaunderdown.com/exploring-the-mountains-of-the-pacific-northw http://nicolaunderdown.com/exploring-the-mountains-of-the-pacific-northw

All summer, Mount Baker had been stalking me.  From downtown Vancouver, looking south towards the States (and east towards the hills), you can clearly see the mountain when visibility is good; it shimmers on the horizon, seeming to be disconnected from the ground.  It looks so stunning, sun shining glossily off the snowy slopes and with a beautiful rocky pyramid shape, that when the opportunity arose to visit up close, we grabbed it.

In fairness, this year has seen plenty of mountains, which is a real treat for me; perhaps my mum would say that there's something in the genes, because there's a definite thing in our family about being out in the hills.  The mountains of the Cascade Range, which runs from southern British Columbia and into the northern US are, needless to say, rather larger that anything I might encounter in the British Isles; so our visit wasn't to the top of Mount Baker, given that a trip there usually involves overnight camping on a glacier, mountaineering gear and timing your visit to summer's better weather.  In fact, our trip to Washington and Oregon states was hurried forward, as we suddenly realised that winter (or late autumn at least) was rapidly approaching, and the time window to see some of these places was limited.

Mount Baker is one of the snowiest (if not THE snowiest) places on the globe; something to do with its precise geographical location, receiving all the precipitation from the Pacific Ocean at a particular altitude. In fact, Mount Baker are predicting that this season will be a 'La Nina' winter, making it even snowier than usual.  One of the strange things about Mount Baker, once you get up close, is that you realise that it isn't a single giant standing alone, but surrounded by enormously glaciated, serrated peaks.  This makes it all the more unusual that it's possible to drive up so close; but the snow means skiing, which means access is required all year round.  As we drove up the switchbacks, we realised that the bamboo canes on either side (stretching to at least 10ft above us) were designed to help the snowplough find a safe route once the snow starts.

As I watched the weather rolling across the hills, Dave climbed up to a nearby viewpoint; the cloud overtook the mountain summit in a huge glowering wave, and I was thankful that we hadn't headed off for an ill-advised hike into the high alpine.  In fact, just a few short weeks later, it is amazing to see that the season is pretty much underway; it's crazy to think we drove past this just a fortnight ago:

Mt_baker
Taken from the Mt Baker snow report available here.

From Mt Baker, we headed west towards the San Juan islands, spending a night in Anacortes and then the next day meandering down Fidalgo and Whidbey islands, crossing onto the Olympic peninsula (the far west of Washington state) via a ferry to Port Townsend.  On an ad-hoc roadtrip like ours, it is often the unexpected things which become highlights, and taking a ferry in the sunshine for half an hour (and for a bargain price, for those accustomed to BC Ferries) proved as such.  Never being out of sight of land meant there was plenty to watch - it was a real treat!

The ferry was tiny! But lovely. And entertaining, when a woman parked her car and got out without turning the engine off, leaving it unlocked with the keys in the ignition and engine running.

Having been sensible about hiking around Mount Baker, we decided to be a bit more adventurous in Olympic National Park.  We headed out there on the afternoon after our ferry ride, driving inland from Port Angeles and up towards Hurricane Ridge where a short hike (3.2 miles return) awaited us.  Perhaps we'd have been less eager to walk if we'd seen that, just a few days before, a man walking near our trail was gored and killed by a mountain goat. However, we knew nothing of this; and being unconcerned by seemingly being the only people left on the mountain (and certainly the only ones in the car park), we headed off up the well-marked trail.  We walked through the cloud which had been hanging low over the valley, emerging into sunshine and a chill wind sweeping over the fairly bleak and barren sandy-coloured expanse.  As we walked, we watched an eagle circling above us, and we emerged onto the ridge to a fantastic changing panorama of hills, forests, and out to the coast.

We returned back down the hill with dusk approaching, heading back to the engaging town of Port Townsend, and then to the hostel a short drive outside town, based on the site of Fort Worden (now a historical site).  After an early start (the hostel manager taking a rather literal view of the 'former barracks' experience) and a quick exploration of the site, we headed south and across the state border into Oregon, for a night in Portland.  

Our final trip to the hills was when we headed east from Portland into the Columbia River Gorge; the river itself is the boundary between Washington and Oregon, and the walls of the gorge, though far apart, are steep, especially on the Oregon side.  We had seen a number of waterfalls during our drive out and so on our second day, we walked part of the renowned Eagle Creek Trail; in fact, we walked the 6 miles up to Tunnel Falls, before a quick lunch stop and heading back.  The path twists and turns as it climbs above the creek, and conditions were rather treacherous in places as the rain which had been a feature of our whole trip meant that water cascaded down onto the path.  The scenery was wonderful, but we did get soaked, and little did we realise that we were outside mobile phone reception; once we returned to the car, and dry clothing, we became aware of the circumstances which necessitated a dramatic change to our plans, and a return to the UK (Dave has more to say on this here).

Me at Multnomah Falls, Oregon. Holds the rather specific title of the second-highest continuously flowing waterfall in the country (I think).

Dave on the Eagle Creek Trail

Dave beside Tunnel Falls - and yes, that's the tunnel.  And no, it's not natural.

As we've now returned to the Pacific Northwest, I feel glad that we took the opportunity to see some of the US while we still could; if we tried to do this trip now, as we initially planned, we'd need snowchains and considerably more enthusiasm for getting cold and wet than we usually have!  So, with just a few weeks remaining on our visas, the question of how we spend our time before Christmas is still a live one...

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]]> http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/1014908/Nich_on_Master_of_my_Domain__Cheakamus_Canyon_Aug_02_2010.jpg http://posterous.com/users/kem0OtCGPL Nicola Underdown nicolaunderdown Nicola Underdown Fri, 05 Nov 2010 02:33:58 -0700 On spending time at the airport http://nicolaunderdown.com/on-spending-time-at-the-airport http://nicolaunderdown.com/on-spending-time-at-the-airport In the last month, I've had a brief insight into the life of a frequent flyer. I've spent more time in airports and on planes than I would like (I even told Dave we're only travelling by train, bus or car for all of 2011).

Oddly, this appeared on twitter at just the right time to console me (though Dave usually does the baggage collection, so I'll defer to him on whether that's the tack he takes).

http://theoatmeal.com/comics/airplane

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]]> http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/1014908/Nich_on_Master_of_my_Domain__Cheakamus_Canyon_Aug_02_2010.jpg http://posterous.com/users/kem0OtCGPL Nicola Underdown nicolaunderdown Nicola Underdown Sun, 17 Oct 2010 14:46:05 -0700 Kayaking with orca at Telegraph Cove, BC http://nicolaunderdown.com/kayaking-with-orca-at-telegraph-cove-bc http://nicolaunderdown.com/kayaking-with-orca-at-telegraph-cove-bc

One thing that British Columbia does really well is space.  I still remember the shock I felt when I read in my guidebook (on the plane during our first journey out) that BC alone is more than 4 times the size of the UK.  Vancouver Island itself is roughly the same size as England, while having the population of Nottingham’s urban area (~750,000).  Want to get away from it all? You’re in the right place.

Telegraph Cove epitomises this.  In the northern half of Vancouver Island, with a population of about 20 hardy souls, this small former fishing village has been transformed into a jumping off point for trips to the Johnstone Strait, and a resort village based on the quaint charm of the wooden buildings perched on the boardwalk which surrounds the tiny harbour.

But why would anyone want to travel four hours (or more) north from Nanaimo to a village with only one pub?  One word – orca.

The Johnstone Strait is the narrow passage that separates Vancouver Island from the mainland.  At between 1.5 and 3 miles wide, it is a natural funnel for marine life in the area, besides being the obvious route to go north up the coast of mainland BC.  The Johnstone Strait is also home to around 150 resident killer whales, and so it’s the best place to go to get up close and personal with one of BC’s big marine predators. 

I overcame my misgivings of having a close encounter with a large, predatory orca in a frail and tiny kayak, and was persuaded by Dave that this would be a great way to spend a few days.  It’s a good thing I did because it turned out to be one of the highlights of this year.

We missed the early ferry onto Vancouver Island by a matter of a few cars’ lengths, so our belated journey up to Telegraph Cove was fairly speedy, with only a short stop at one of the places we’d loved on a previous visit – Campbell River.  Campbell River is a microcosm of all the stuff that makes Canada so enjoyable – the weather’s always good (OK, that may be exaggerating, but it has been for us), the scenery is stunning and the people are super friendly.  We chatted to folks out on the Discovery Pier, which projects into the water next to the marina and provides an ideal spot for fishermen. 

Having eaten a huge ice cream each, and been entranced by the harbour seal chasing fish which had clustered in the marina, we headed on ‘up island’.  The traffic thinned, the roads became longer and straighter and we scanned the roadside for wildlife. 

One compromise that we had had to make as part of the trip was that, as well as camping during the trip itself, we would camp the night before.  Telegraph Cove doesn’t have a surfeit of lodgings, especially in the days around a public holiday, but the kayak company kindly lent us all the camping gear the night before and we reached the campsite shortly before dark.  The campsite was damp after a day of rain, and as night fell, and other campers retreated to their tents or RVs, we could still be found desperately trying to get a fire going and cook some dinner, the camping stove having run out of gas shortly after our arrival. 

That risotto tasted damn good by the time we ate it. I like to think the ash and woodsmoke in it added to the flavour and ambience.

My reticence resurfaced as we packed our gear into drybags and set off the next morning; Dave and I shared a tandem kayak, a situation which is ripe for marital discord.

However, an hour or so after paddling out, disagreements were forgotten as we edged into the strait, glided over the beds of bull kelp, and encountered orca, diving and wriggling through the kelp as they chased the salmon that form much of their diet.

We spent a while watching the orcas surface and dive around us, with our kayaks clustered together to provide a solid block.  The strait was quiet, with only the odd fishing or whale-watching boat (and Straitwatch, who keep on eye on whale watchers) chugging about, and so the breathy snorkelling noises of the whales as they surface, exhale and inhale were really clearly audible. 

The whales dispersed and we moved on, hugging the shore and charmed by the young harbour seal which approached our group, keen to investigate us (and at one point considering leaping onto one of the kayaks).  Seals always remind me of enthusiastic dogs and this young pup seemed to want nothing more than for us to throw a stick for him to fetch. 

We had a short break for snacks before paddling on, encountering bald-headed eagles, a sea lion and sea life of all sorts.  The early morning mist refused to clear and we could occasionally hear wildlife without being able to see it.  It was eerie to know that the banks of the strait on the other side were so close but completely invisible, and after our earlier exhilaration, we became a bit subdued as the fog chilled and quietened us.

We stopped and chose our campsite just up from the pebbly beach; the cool weather kept the bugs at bay while Dave and I (with the benefit of our previous night’s experience) rapidly put up the tent and emerged back out into the slowly developing sunshine.  The joy of travelling by boat (rather than carrying everything on our backs) was reiterated as cheese and biscuits were produced for a pre-dinner snack.  Thus revived, and with the weather improving, we sat in the sunshine (trying to get a fire going) and admired our surroundings.

Over dinner, we chatted with the two other kayakers while a series of strange noises honked and parped at us from the beach.  A humpback whale was graciously and slowly making its way up the strait, and once dinner was over, the improved visibility allowed us to watch it come to the surface, making a distinctive noise that sounded a bit like the Tardis getting going.  The display continued, with Dall’s porpoises and White-sided dolphins darting in the shallows near the beach.  Our guide warned us that dolphins make themselves unpopular with bigger whales by harassing them and swimming around them, getting in their way; who knew dolphins were the yobs of the sea?  And suddenly it became apparent that the dolphins were harrying the humpback whale, which was trying to scare them away with its vocalisations.  A movement caught my eye and I looked up to see the humpback breached fully out of the water, its white underside bright in the sunlight, and then came the noise – like a bomb going off in the quiet surrounds of the strait, the whale landed and the plume of water created a huge explosion, like a clap of thunder.  Once more it breached, before lying on its back, slapping the water with its fins to shoo the dolphins away.

And now the orcas started passing us; the dolphins were diverted and we watched as orca chased off the dolphins while they fed on the salmon in the kelp beds. 

The show went on as orcas in small groups, twos and threes, came past, dolphins and porpoises occasionally chasing, while the humpback welcomed the relative peace and continued its stately journey up the strait.  We watched, entranced, and as night fell, the sound of orcas breathing still came clear across the water, even as we lay in our tents.

It was a day that couldn’t really be topped, and sure enough, the next day passed with barely a sniff of a wildlife sighting.  The fog was back and we paddled slowly back towards Telegraph Cove, got dry and warm, and made the long journey back to the city.

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