CHANGE IS THE only guarantee, stability is but a fleeting illusion. Few things illustrate this more clearly then the annual winter-spring-winter-spring seesaw that takes place here in Colorado’s Front Range foothills. Last week, temperatures soared. The sun shone with soul-caressing warmth. I strode across hills and open space watching the land emerge from its covering
The outdoor diary of a writer, photographer, and wilderness wanderer
EARLY LAST WEEK a backpacker made a comment on a social media group page that stuck with me. ‘I can’t wait for camping season,’ they wrote. ‘Does anyone think April is too early to start?’ Of course, several people chimed straight in, boastfully claiming that there is only one season for camping – all year.
NORMALLY, I’M EXTREMELY organised when it comes to backpacking – especially winter backpacking. But I just demonstrated the opposite – I forgot the bloody matches, again, exactly as I forgot them last June. Ironically, I forgot them upon the same mountain. I realised my mistake at the trailhead this time, not once I reached camp.
FOR ME, GETTING out on foot into nature is a priority. I’m certain that I could manage just fine if I didn’t have frequent contact with wild places, but I’m profoundly glad that I don’t have to test this theory to find out if it’s true! I’ve made it a priority because nature
MY SECOND BOOK – On Sacred Ground – is coming along well. In fact, it’s almost done. The manuscript is fully written, and, aside from a few extra passages, it has been professionally edited. Alex Roddie, my editor, returned the manuscript to me shortly before Christmas. Since then, I’ve been working through his edits obsessively.
WINTER HAS FINALLY arrived in Colorado’s Front Range. And not before time. In truth, a day earlier would have been better. You may have seen the news: the wind-fueled wild fires on December 30th that torched over 1,000 homes and businesses south of Boulder. I saw the smoke from my home twelve miles to the
PROLOGUE: AN ALPINE BOUNCE The Bernese Oberland, Switzerland ON THE SECOND day of June, 1993, I fell down a mountain. It was a spectacularly unpleasant thing to do. As an experience it isn’t something I’d recommend, but for the way it changed my approach to life I remain eternally grateful. The accident took place
A FAIR NUMBER of people have now asked me: “Why isn’t The Earth Beneath My Feet in colour?” It’s a reasonable question, and one I completely understand. I’ve only ever read genuine curiosity in it – never criticism. I usually answer by saying: “I wish it was!” After all, the wild Europe I walked across