2024 FINISHED WITH two camps, one in the foothills, one up in the high country. They weren’t many miles apart in distance, but in character they belonged to different worlds entirely.
I’ll be honest, both camps almost didn’t happen. Before deciding to go on each, before packing, I found myself struggling with motivation, which is crazy, given how much I know I love winter camping, and also how profoundly beneficial I know nature-immersion is. But, as I grow older, I’m starting to feel an increasing reluctance to endure the discomforts that winter camps can bring: the heavier pack that needs to be carried, the long black nights spent inside a tiny tent, the intense cold and creeping frost, the constant work and attention needed to manage winter conditions and stay warm. Even packing for winter trips is starting to feel like a chore. It would be so much easier to stay home. To stay warm. To stay with my family.
Happily though, on December 21st and then on the 30th, I managed to propel myself out the door. And, predictably perhaps, I was amply rewarded for doing it.
The first camp was made in the foothills not far from home. The weather leading up to it had been unseasonably warm, with daytime temperatures soaring into the mid-sixties and the sky cloudless and blue. November’s heavy snows had mostly thawed away and there was even a flush of green on the mountain above my house, something not normally seen until April.
Was this spring-like warmth a good reality for December, or a bad? Well, clearly, there are many different ways of looking at it. But instead of agonizing over the climate crisis I chose to take it for what it was. I successfully got myself moving, gathered my camping gear, stepped out the door, and decided to make the best of it.
Four miles from home I was up in pine forests. Birds sang. Afternoon light spilled between the trees with astonishing warmth. Blown away by the benign conditions, I relaxed onto a soft mattress of fallen pine needles and basked in the spring-like ambience, letting everything go but awareness of the moment. And to think, I thought to myself once I eventually got moving again, I almost didn’t come…
I drifted onwards through the woods towards camp, almost in a daze. There was a dreamlike quality to the light. It took me back to late summer evenings in the UK, to woodlands not far from where I grew up in London. I could have been in the Chilterns, or the Ashdown Forest – A. A. Milne’s magical ‘Hundred Acre Woods’, a fantasy realm of childhood perfection that had somehow re-materialized here in Colorado’s foothills.
The night was beautiful and mild. But I barely slept. I’d brought my winter sleeping bag but the night was far warmer than had been forecast. There wasn’t even a frost. I spent the solstice tossing and turning, far too warm.
That lack of sleep almost defeated the next camp nine days later. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go through another sleepless night. I wasn’t even sleeping well at home, for a variety of reasons, and why make it worse by camping? The forecast wasn’t promising: thuggish winds gusting to 75 mph, and the first real burst of cold in weeks: an overnight low in the mountains approaching O°F, -17.7°C. It didn’t sound especially pleasurable!
The sensible voice within, the voice of reason, the perfectly natural comfort-seeking voice, and the many doubts and reasons ‘not to’, almost won. I so very nearly took the easy option and stayed home. But somehow the other Andrew – the younger Mad Mountain Jack Andrew – the Andrew who once thought nothing of starting an 18-month long walk, won the day. He filled the pack, hustled us both outside.
For this last camp of the year I’d hoped to head somewhere dramatic and pitch my shelter high above treeline, but once I neared the mountains and saw the blurring of spindrift screaming across open slopes I made a sensible choice and opted for a sheltered forest camp instead. To keep it interesting, though, I decided to return to a location I’d camped upon a year earlier. Comparisons can be instructive! Returning to the same place can often increase the value of that place, even make it feel like home. On the previous visit, in December 2023, conditions had been less windy and far warmer, with barely any snow left on the ground. Given how warm this latest December had been I anticipated more of the same, although I also expected that noisy wind-tossed trees and biting overnight cold would make it feel different, and even adventurous. Well, perhaps. In reality, I didn’t anticipate it being an especially memorable night out.
But it would, at least, be a night out. Which made it a victory no matter what happened.
Yes, my expectations were modest. But from the very first step they were utterly confounded… as expectations for nature almost always are! Unexpectedly, the forest this year was buried in snow. It was deep, soft, fresh. The pines were heavily laden. I’d known that an inch or two had been forecast for the day before, but I’d imagined the winds would have shaken it off the trees. And I predicted that the snow pack would be old and dirty, speckled with needles and twigs. But what I found instead was a pristine wonderland. What a treat!
The snowpack itself was far deeper than I’d expected. In places up to two feet. THIS, I celebrated, is more like it! THIS is what winter is supposed to be like! Grinning like that much younger Mad Mountain Jack, I ploughed through the bewitching softness on snowshoes and set up camp in a clearing that ought to – if I had my bearings right – catch the morning sun.
By nightfall, the temperature dropped sharply, falling towards the forecast low, zero Fahrenheit. But once the wind also dropped the conditions became bearable – with care. As I snowshoed aimlessly through the forest after dinner, enveloped by the softness of night, the discomforts I’d earlier wanted to avoid faded away into insignificance. Coming here had almost been a chore. But oh what I would have missed! As always, nature had repaid the effort. As always, there were rewards. As always, nature was working its miracle-cure to every ounce of malaise and apathy I’d suffered.
I slept well. The best sleep in weeks. Dawn eventually came, shining brightly into the forest and onto the high peaks. The view from camp was wonder-filled, yet another treat for coming.
The morning was still and soft, peaceful and beautiful. Despite the cold a few birds announced themselves, their songs echoing through the pines. Squirrels chattered, perhaps at my own intrusion here. The morning was frigid, but full of life. Once again I thought: oh what I would have missed!
I lingered over coffee and breakfast until sunlight struck my tent, then finally – and a little reluctantly – packed up. But it was pleasant to get to do it in relative warmth. It turned out I had chosen the spot well. I was here without a map. Without a compass. Without my phone. But I know this area well now, and choosing a good spot to catch morning warmth, getting it right, felt good.
Away I snowshoed into the forest…
As I left the hills I recalled a thought I’d written in this blog months earlier: ‘the more you go, the luckier you get’. Well, once again I’d had it confirmed. By two very different camps. It was something I needed to remember the next time motivation fell. And I didn’t doubt it would at some point. The truth is, as I grow older my desire to keep on re-experiencing certain mountain discomforts IS lowering. It’s probably not surprising I suppose! And yet… ‘the more you go, the luckier you get.’ And ‘the more you engage with life, the richer life is.’ And ‘The more time you give to nature, the more gifts nature gives back.’
I think I’m sharing all of this more for myself than for any other reason. Because doing what I know is best for myself isn’t always easy. But if anyone else ever finds themselves struggling with the ‘should I stay home or should I go?’ question, or with the ‘I’ll take the easy option, even though I know I shouldn’t,’ then I hope this blog might help. Almost always, you should just go. Almost always, the hard option will be well worth it. Times a thousand then multiplied by infinity.