The expiry of my shotgun licence has prompted me to reflect that it was five years ago that I was making the necessary preparations for my first trip to Svalbard. You can read that feature here, now on the TGO website (here)

I'm busy thinking about my next trip which is a return to northern Sweden for some backcountry journeying with pulk and hottent. I'm looking forward to it very much. Not the most comfortable of trips but I've gleaned enough experience to make it surprisingly tolerable. The beauty of the mountains in winter is pronounced, it really can be the best time.

With that in mind I am posting here a recent feature from TGO Magazine on that very subject. I'll be updating here in a month or so how my trip went, I am conscious I've neglected this blog a bit and I've a few things to reflect on (not least last September's wonderful journey through Finland and Norway) as 2019 picks up.

I really enjoyed guest editing and writing a number of features in the TGO Scandinavian Supplement which was published this month. It was great to put out into the UK outdoor press a very eye catching publication which espouses the joys of spending time in the wilds of Scandinavia. I enjoyed too involving some writers, bloggers and photographers such as Mark Roberts, Jaakko Heika and James Boulter.

It all came together on this trip. Some learning points (which is good), no disasters (even better) and an incredibly relaxing 10 or so days out in remote Swedish Lapland (the best thing). Even the little bumps in the road, such as the airline I was due to fly up to Gallivare on going bust, caused things to swing in my favour once insurance claims were made. Serendipity no less.

So two days before midsummer I made the familiar journey to Stockholm and then boarded the sleeper up to Gallivare. It’s always good to be in Sweden, feels like a homecoming in a sense (it was once home), and I was full of anticipation as to the trip ahead when I and a few early season walkers, boarded the bus at Gallivare for the three or so hour journey to Vakkotvare.
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The plan was relatively straightforward and it worked well. I used the Kungsleden from Vakkotvare up to the source of the Kaitum’s waters at the STF huts at Kaitumstugorna. I had arrived on the first day of the summer season and the three huts I passed presented me with an opportunity to stock up from their shops. With everything I needed, and indeed more, I hiked slowly over a day and a half until, thankfully, I reached the waters of Gaskas Kaitumjaure.

In the course of my ongoing packrafting epiphany I've realised the danger of a heavy pack is acute when manhandling a normal ten day expedition weight and rafting gear (at least another 5kg). I did have to work hard that day and a half up the Kungsleden as I had a pack busting with food (in retrospect I should have bought more at Kaitumstugorna and hiked with less). That said, 'put in' was a relief and once the pack, again I’ll emphasis brimming with food and fuel, was on the boat, the weight was arguably negligible (I did realise later in the trip as I was on the river itself if I got into trouble the boat would be much harder to rescue). 

I was surprised too by how much I enjoyed that walk up that section of the Kungsleden. It had been a long time since I had walked here but I was struck by how attractive the scenery was. The high fell terrain was easy to walk on and appealing to the eye. The deep clefts of the lakes at Teusajaure and Kaitum are, and I now realise it with a much experienced eye, remarkable

I had company too on the Kungsleden, Oskar from Stockholm had been on the bus with me and we had lunch together at the stop at Stora Sjofallet. He proceeded to the hut at Teusajaure whilst I had a night on the fell (using for the first time a handy little micro tarp as a living space). He was doing his first fell trip so we walked together after we met again at Teusajaure. I enjoyed his company and when we parted as we reached, finally, the waters of Kaitumjaure I was unaware that that was the last sight of another person until I reached Kaitum village 8 days later.

So at the head of Padja Kaitumjaure I was delighted to dump the pack and busily assembled the boat ready for the off. With the bit of practice that Scotland afforded I am now able to get everything up fairly briskly. It was certainly exciting to push off from the shore and begin to paddle eastwards.

As the map below indicates Padja Kaitumjaure has a sense of drama about it with steep cliff faces from the fell lunging down into the lake. My objective for that afternoon was a fairly modest one. To clear that first lake and to arrive at Gaska Kaitumjaure which had much better options for camp with a flat shoreline in great parts.

A comfortable pitch that first night was important. The next day, Saturday, was forecasted as one of high winds and rain. I was minded to sit it out in the tent if needs be. As the map had indicated with flat contour lines there was plenty of choice and it was easy to select a pitch as I paddled along. 

As I arrived on the shoreline and pulled the boat up in the wind I was hit immediately by the sense of cold and quickly changed into dry clothing. That was a lesson learnt quickly and from that point onwards I kept my change clothes in a dry bag at the top of the pack. I certainly think summer paddling can be done without the investment of a dry suit (indeed Paramo put me in touch with a fellow tester, Tom Sibbald, who is a professional canoe guide and instructor (see here). Tom was of the view that Paramo works in the water (it does) and I am grateful for his advice. But, the need for warm and dry clothing is acute when you've stopped.

Saturday morning dawned as forecasted and if the rain didn't put me off then the raging white horses on the lake top certainly did. I got up too to secure the packraft which had been tossed around in the night, it would have been very embarrasing to have abandoned this trip because I lost the packraft in this manner! That done the day passed rather pleasantly and whilst I felt a modicum of guilt at a rest so early on in the trip I enjoyed simply being in such a fine wild place. Part of the day was spent studying the map and contemplating how difficult it would have been to hike here. 

As my diary notes 'I am well intentioned' as I get up early and get ready for the next stage of my journey. Up at 6 am but dismayed a little to note that the wind hadn't dropped and that the massive lake is still choppy. Still, I comfort myself with the fact that the wind is behind me and it could be worse. Breakfast and packing up is slow that morning, it's one of the days when you are super mindful of the wind. A moments lapse in concentration and a lightweight piece of gear could be lifted from camp and dispatched to any of the four corners of Lapland. I set off at 8 am but was surprised to find once away that the journey is relatively straightforward, the challenge lay in launching off on the two occasions I had to pull up to shore to stretch my legs and pee. Danger was in being turned sideways to the wind and swamped.

The weather improved considerably and it was a dreamy day as I was pushed down along the lake having to only correct my course with the odd swish of the paddle. I note in my diary that the setting of this huge lake is heart breakingly beautiful and it's hard to argue with that sentiment. Behind me Kebnaikaise revealed itself and at many a point I allowed the boat to simply drift around so I could marvel in it all.

I set the pattern that day for the rest of the trip. By around 2 pm I am hungry, a little cold and in need of stretching my legs. The answer to all of this lay at the very far eastern shore of Gaskas Kaitumjaure. A stony beach led up to a flat grassy plateau and I had arrived at my night's pitch.

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I began to establish an agreeable pattern for the trip. I essentially spent the mornings paddling and then pitched early afternoon to enjoy a hot lunch and a very relaxed rest of day. Here, lunch eaten and tent pitched I simply lay on my foam mat and drifted off into a post prandial snooze, sublime. I later took the opportunity to scout some of the route for the next day as I was to leave this lake system via the first rapids of the trip and into the lower lake. I scouted around the high ground and was able to size up what tomorrow might bring in its first part.

It was certainly an impressive setting and perhaps the finest pitch of the camp. The huge wall that the north face of Cihkkumvardu presents is a compelling sight and I was very satisfied with the last two days rafting in some of Sweden's best high alpine scenery.

The next day saw the first of the rapids, a Class 2 and and 1, which were fairly straightforward save the shallowness of the water presented a risk of running aground. I felt the sense of a new chapter beginning as I entered into the 'lower' lake of Voulep Kaitumjaure. This lake took on a different character and the sense of leaving the very high alpine area began. With a lessening wind the lake felt more benign. 

​If I was to see anyone on this trip it would have been today as I passed the wilderness fishing camp of Tjuonajakk. It's presence indicated that some of the world's best fishing lay just beneath me and that punters paid a small fortune to fly in and fish these waters. But as I drift past the camp I see no-one.

Camp again followed early afternoon and another lazy rest of day. I feel in contemplative mood that afternoon and I record in my diary the sense of the journey as I drift down the Kaitum. I muse a little about what packrafting is bringing me this trip and it does feel pleasingly different from just executing another backpacking trip. Being on the water provides a new perspective I note and it's one that deepens as I drift down river surprising wildlife as I go silently eastwards.

The rule of not attempting anything higher than a Class 3 rapid sees me coming off the water at Liedik and taking a 24 hour detour up into the hills. It's an interesting contrast and a reminder of what a usual summer trip is like out in Lapland. The ground is hard going, as it usually is, on the lower elevations as I cut through mire and bush. This time though the pack is heavier and I have opportunity again to reflect that.

It's an enjoyable detour up on the fells. The bird life is different and I am surrounded by Golden Plover calling to each other, the sound always reminds me of my Grona Bandet as I journeyed north throughout that lengthy summer.

The hike back down to the river again requires some effort but by mid morning I am off down river again. With the flow of the water the afternoon requires little effort.

As I note in my dairy that night I am lucky to have so much food and fuel and the benefit of two hot meals a day is apparent. This is the advantage of this trip down the Kaitum, in effect if you're here in season the huts at Kaitumstugorna allow you to shop only a few hundred meters from put in. Finland though in the autumn, and I muse on this a lot, will be somewhat different and I'll be forced to take less through Vatsari.

Another advantage of the Kaitum is the excellent river guide which enables me to plan and the fact that to the north of the river is a marked footpath which should enable a fairly painless exit out of the wilds and back to Kaitum with its railway station if things go wrong.

As the journey progresses and then I begin to count the days down to the end the landscape changes around me. It's flatter and the bush a lot thicker, real boreal forest which is deep and intense. Bursting with sub-arctic life as well.

One memorable meeting is with a large elk. I drift, as I do from time to time, allowing me the current to carry me. It's a time to simply lie back and take it all in as I flow through the landscape. I ambush a number of animals as I silently approach, one such occasion is a huge bull elk who spots me at the last moment and startled, charges off back into the bush.

The pace of this trip too makes for one of the most relaxing backcountry trips I've ever done. The Kaitum does a lot of the work for you and you are carried, with all your life support systems with you, effortlessly through this landscape. That said, just to keep it interesting, the rapids come and suddenly its time to switch on, think and act.

Each day helps me learn a little more about the boat, both its piloting and care. In the recesses of my mind some whitewater techniques bubble up from years ago. But I've forgotten more than I've retained and I realise that I need to acquire much more knowledge. As is frequently said, the river will not stop finding ways to kill you. 

I spend time thinking too about how to effect a reliable field repair if required. I become stuck on the rocks on one set of rapids and as I inspect the boat that evening notice some abrasion. I've an array of repair materials and a tyvek tape (link below) easily masks minor damage.

Living on the river, for the main, can vary. As I come out of the mountains and into the thick forest obvious pitches become more difficult to spot. I have to look hard for flat ground, not always easily identifiable.

One give away, and one indicator that others use this river, is the tale tale sign of a fire ring on the bank. There are a few commercial groups that whitewater raft down the Kaitum and no doubt they use certain favoured camps. More than once when looking for a home for the night I spot stones piled up around a former camp fire and I land to find a decent flat pitch which has obviously been used by others at some point.

And whilst I see not a soul for the entirety of my paddle from the start at Kaitumstugorna to Kaitum village itself there is the occasional sign of people. the most obvious is the odd Sami hut or turf structure. I also come ashore one evening to check out an open hut which is marked on the map (it contains an emergency telephone as well).

Sadly, it's scruffy inside, with a rubbish sack full of empty beer cans and other assorted crap. It's a shame that whoever decides to use this shelter as a convenient home in the wild does not see fit to leave it at least reasonably tidy.

One human structure that I stumble across as I search for a pitch on my last night is an old Sami turf shelter. A little worn but it's delightful inside and was obviously both well used and cared for at one stage.

Inside there's a stove, chair and a set of china crockery. There's also some meths too strung from the ceiling which would be useful. Sadly, it's my last night on the river as, after 8 days, Kaitum village and it's tiny station is only half a days paddling away. 

I love places like this, a window into one man's place in the world and home in the wild. This pretty little Sami turf hut would have been a cosy refuge in the depths of winter.

I guess I'm constantly seeking my own place in the wild, a core reason for doing this sort of trip. Packrafting, I've realised, has really opened up the landscape for me and it's exciting to think that water is no longer an obstacle and now a conduit to places which see little footfall.

On the last Saturday in June I finally reach the tiny settlement of Kaitum. There's one train a day heading to Kiruna and I arrive with a couple of hours to spare which lets me pack up leisurely and have a hot meal. Kaitum station itself proves to be a little elusive (!) and I find it about two minutes before the train arrives. Within an hour or half I'm heading towards the hotel in Kiruna and generally feeling pretty positive about the last ten days or so.

I'm humble when it comes to packrafting, I've a lot to learn about how to conduct myself on moving water and it would be very easy to get myself into trouble. That said I think I've developed the fundamentals of trekking with a raft and this trip has given me lots to think about. One thing is the extra packweight, the raft and assorted accessories will easily add another 5kg and I really felt that at the beginning as I hiked the Kungsleden. September sees 14 days in Finnish Lapland and into Norway. There will be more hiking there in some rough landscape and I have to use the time in between to work out how best to hit the sweet spot on packweight and the right equipment.

Below are some links which may assist too in thinking about the Kaitum. I add as well a little about the fishing camp I passed (if you've a spare few hundred quid you can fly in) and I include too the link to Caj Koskinen's very watchable YouTube video of his own trip down the Kaitum. I've subsequently found out that they were a couple of days behind, I saw Caj's car parked at Kaitum itself. Small world!

​Useful Links.
Tyvek Repair Tape
Tjounajokk Fishing Camp.
Kaitum Paddle Guide. .
Gallivare Fishing Guide.
Kaj Koskinen - You Tube - 9 Days Paddling The Kaitum 
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A few weeks ago, as winter finally released its grip, I headed to the Highlands for the beginning of a new chapter in my wanderings. This trip was much anticipated. A run of office bound time in London as spring burst in to life around me had me itching to get out. Relish to that was a brand new packraft and a head full of dreams of a new way of travelling the wild. A prolonged winter had left my local reservoir too cold to venture in without an expensive dry suit and I was desperate for some much needed time on the water.

I didn't take long to settle on a location for this inaugural trip. Assynt boasts not only iconic mountains but a loch system that makes travel by water for extended periods not only feasible but incredibly joyful. Excellent preparation, I thought, for my first trip with the raft to Sweden in June.

A new way to getting to Scotland as I fly to Inverness after work as well adds to the sense of a new chapter. Whilst I had to grind through Gatwick the plus was being able to make the connecting bus to Lochinver via Ullapool the following morning which would have been unachievable on the Sleeper. By lunchtime I'm heading out of Lochinver and into that iconic landscape. As I climb along the banks of the River Kirkaig and ascend towards Fionh Loch the bulk of Suilven greets me, the fulcrum of this trip and one of Scotland's finest mountains.

This is certainly a new venture for me but the basics are easy to grasp. Camp set that first evening on Fionh Loch I prepare the raft. It's fairly straightforward and with a bit of practice you can be ready in about fifteen minutes or so. I launch into the choppy waters of the loch but it doesn't take long to get a sense of the boat. I begin to enjoy myself as I paddle a few hundred meters from my camp, out into the midst of the loch and quickly gaining an entirely different perspective on my surroundings.

Next morning and I feel I am doing this for real. I break camp, pack away and make sure everything is secure as I fasten my pack to the bow. I head east along the loch with Suilven to my side for several kilometres through the course of the morning. The next phase of my training is a portage as I cross from Fionh Loch to Loch Sionasgaig, a couple of miles across country but amply rewarded as I arrive at this island studded slice of paradise. An isolated loch, encircled by some of Scotland's best hills, and with not a soul in sight.

And as I paddle to a wooded island which will be my home for the night the appeal of packrafting is wholly clear to me. For relatively little weight water is no longer an obstacle, it's a vast opportunity opening up routes through wilderness and the opportunity to access land which few, if any, visit.

In the midst of native forest, on the delightful island of Sgerain Dubha, I make camp. As the wind drops and the loch stills, serenity simply as evening light shades the landscape. It's a memorable night on that sliver of land.

Saturday sees me head north and a rendezvous with Marc. More portage this time as I return to Fionn Loch but in this instance a few miles down from the day before. I spend several hours in the raft that day as I navigate across a connecting loch system to Loch Veyatie before packing the boat away and hiking across the flanks of Suilven.

Camp is a spot I enjoyed four years ago on the start of a ten dayer through Assynt and Sutherland. Loch Na Gainimh offers a sumptuous flat pitch of fresh grass at it's eastern end and I'm quickly settled in.

Not much to do the next day as Marc is to arrive in the evening. A lie in is planned but that is scuppered as I am forced out of the tent by the heat of the morning. nothing for it then but to inflate that raft and paddle the raft before a spot of lunch. A snooze and then more paddling before I begin to anticipate Marc's arrival. There he is at five, making his way along the estate path, bearing beer and steaks. We certainly enjoy the evening.

This has been a hugely successful trip, blessed by the weather but ultimately one in which I've come to grips with the very basics of packrafting. I'm under no illusions though, this is the start of a very long journey and whitewater is a world away from a benign windless loch. But as I fly south I'm optimistic and begin to really relish the prospect of two trips to Sweden and Finland later in the year. This is the start of something.

Ill post a little more with my thoughts on the beginning of my packraft journey before I head to Sjaunja at the end of June. There's some key differences in preparing for this type of trip and I've some thoughts too on how to modify the boat. The prospect of those big watercourses in Sweden is simply delicious, I can't wait!

March comes and I'm back hauling my winter outfit to Northern Scandinavia, a return to one of my old hefts, beautiful Jamtland. The snow rich winter that Scotland has enjoyed is ten fold there and I know I'm in for a treat as I pack my gear up into my rig and fly to Norway's coastal city of Trondheim in anticipation of the short train journey to Storulvan the next day. Winter, once very much the off season for me, has now become my favourite time of year. Summer is about sweat, insects and the feeling you should be making distance. Winter is a more relaxed time, you just need the right gear and a good skill set and you're away.

Over several seasons I think my winter tool kit is assembled and I know what I'm doing enough to push on next year to longer journeys in more remote country. Living in deep cold and working with the medium of snow has taken some learning but I think finally that I've grasped enough of the fundamentals to move onto the next level and some ambitious boreal winter trips. I spent six nights out of seven this trip living in temperatures as low as -28 degrees c and for the main I lived comfortably. I'll admit I've got the fact that a lightweight hot tent rig is the key ace in the pack and if you master the basic backcountry skills to keep your stove burning hot then nights out in deep cold become more than tolerable.

I'm going to keep my powder dry on a lot of what I've worked out through trial and error as well as having had some guidance from those more accomplished than me. The reason for this is that I'm to pen a feature for 'The Great Outdoors' magazine, out sometime next winter. That will be part guide but perhaps most importantly a celebration of winter travel and the much underrated author Kevin Rutstrum. For Rutstrum winter was THE time for backcountry travel and he devoted his life to honing an incisive knowledge of thriving in what he considered to be conditions close to a paradise. His writings are still relevant today and perhaps most importantly are deeply inspiring.

Suffice to say I had a good seven days in Jamtland and my desire to stay outside and avoid the comfort that the huts could provide (save for a night in Gasen, my rig is not meant for the very high ground of winter fells) says it all. There were some challenges of course but these tend to be the start of the learning curve. Dealing with 'green' birch is always difficult and I fared the best I could when this was the only wood around. Deep cold too on the final nights when my sleeping system was at the limits of it's functionality reminded me of that trade off between weight and performance (I use a two bag system so replacing the 'inner' bag with something slightly warmer is straightforward). But in the main I advanced my skill set and I was well rewarded.

Just a few simple adjustments to my kit means I was able to get the tent settled in deep snow much quicker. MSR snow stakes are worth their weight ten fold, the conductivity of a broad span of metal meant I could get the Drift Hot Tent up pretty sharpish and get on with other chores. The purchase of a pulk bag too from Snowsled (now Aiguille) and just organising and transporting my kit became much easier. Clothing too; Paramo threw my way a pair of Enduro Trousers and they were fantastic legwear for the entire week. Not cheap but a real investment if you need a resilient pair of trousers across a broad range of temperatures.

I'll say again my lightweight stove is a real servant to me. Without it 'cold tenting' would present a very different trip. Dealing with Brennen of Liteweight outdoors has been a pleasure and I've been in contact with him again recently to order some spares. A fantastic system and well worth the money as I expect to get years from it. See here for details. 

Get everything right and a winter trip to the sub-arctic is really like nothing else. There's a harsh beauty which is compelling and the interplay of light of snow. And if you're blessed with sunshine then there is nowhere else to be. There is a visceral joy in being out in these sorts of conditions.

Perhaps the most important thing on a winter trip is a sense of resilience and a desire to work hard. There's always chores to be done and I found myself racing every evening to have everything ready before sundown. As the sun dipped it simply felt like a switch had been flicked and quite promptly temperatures way colder than your typical domestic freezer bit hard.

But this light hot tent system works and every night I was cocooned in warmth when, just outside that micro thin layer of silnylon temperatures, were nudging minus thirty c. Whilst perhaps in many instances a cotton tent might be better (such as a Snowtrekker) this little system is potable enough to be borne on your back (as I have done so many times now in Scotland).

After a week out I returned to the earthly delights of a hostel and a hot shower with mixed feelings. Delight at another successful trip but I must admit I relished being in a centrally heated building and washing in hot water!

I look forward over the coming months to penning my article and consolidating my thoughts on a light weight approach to snowshoeing and hot tents. If this sort of thing appeals to you and you would like to get to grips at least with the principles I would suggest a listen to this podcast by Paul Kirtley. 

After my bimble a return to camp and then a comfortable night in the rather mild temperatures. Perfection indeed, none of the biting insects of the warmer months but equally an absence of numbing cold. I pottered that Saturday evening and readied myself for a trip up high the following morning.

With the next day dawning clear I was away early and simply followed a course north through bright morning sunshine, a day loaded with promise indeed.

Up to Beinn A Bhuird I stride, replacing 'bare boots' with snowshoes on the 800 metre mark. My Tubbs Mountaineers prove to be very useful, the crampons hold me well as I ascend a snow covered 45 degree slope with some ease.

It's an incredible day to be out and as I gain height the fullness of the Cainrgorms in winter is revealed. Simply an arresting sight as I pause on my ascent to take it all in.

The snow's crisp and firm up top, scoured no doubt by the likes of the cold wind which bites as I skirt the corries. Down below Dubh Lochan where I'd spent an idyllic August camp.

And all around far reaching views, not least the central plateau, all ice white.

Perhaps this is the way to do snowshoeing in Scotland I muse as I descend. It's certainly been an easy and enjoyable way to explore the high places with a light load. My trip in December was more difficult with a five day backpacking load causing me to struggle through fresh powder. Simply the lack of snow coverage in Scotland to justify a pulk, consequently your weight is not distributed across the snow and you just have to fight every step more.

An easy going Sunday night caps a peaceful weekend. It's a delight to return to my ready made camp after a day on the hill and have to do nothing more than simply brew up. A walkout the next day and a bus journey to Aberdeen.

Another Cairngorm trip over and sadness as I leave the peace of the Glen and travel first to the bustle of Aberdeen and then ultimately the grind of London. Much to look forward to though. I'm back to Sweden in March for a less balmy snowshoeing trip which should lead to a magazine feature next winter. I've been falling into the 'zone' by reading the enjoyable 'Paradise Below Zero', an arguable classic by a writer who is little known in the UK it seems.

I'll be up in Scotland in April after that. It's in my blood now. I'll try flying and see how that works, the advantage of living near Gatwick may mean it's feasible though the convenience of the Sleeper will be hard to replace. Hopefully, back to the Cairngorms in May as I seek to gain enough competence with a pack raft to make a trip to Sjaunja in Swedish Lappland viable.

Taking snow shoes up to Scotland has been a hit and miss affair in recent years. Last year saw me spend an entire five days with them strapped to my pack, I'd rushed up there after a large dump of snow in late November to find I'd missed it by days as I hiked in sometimes balmy weather more reminiscent of autumn. Scottish winter seems quite emphemeral, existing more in the memories of those who had patrolled the hills in the Seventies and Sixties than the present day.

This time I was a little more optimistic, heavy snow the weekend before and reports of Cairngorm skiing in full swing had me heading up on a planned trip with some hope. An opportunity perhaps to prep a little before a return to Sweden in March and reacquaint myself with my Tubbs Mountaineers.

Late December blackness at I pull the blind on the Sleeper as it stands at Dalwhinnie. The platform is covered in snow and as I busy myself to arrive in Aviemore I'm pleased that it looks like I might be in luck. Aviemore is reached on schedule and there is time for a second bacon roll of the morning and more tea before the friendly Gerry of Gerry's Taxis has me up at the ski centre at around 9am as light begins to pierce the December gloom.

Coire Cas is loaded with snow and its quite the winter scene, early morning skiers head for the lifts as I get ready for the off. Winter climbers too heading towards the Northern Corries and I trail a couple of them. My plan for the day is a rather simple one. I want to climb onto the perimeter of the plateau and peer down into the Lairig Ghru.

As I climb I reminded how physically demanding snow shoeing can be, its a work out certainly. This time there's not the weight distribution you get with a pulk. With a five day backpacking pack on my weight is much more centred and consequently I have to work harder. It's a useful reminder to keep my cardio fitness and a high standard is required for March. I remember the effort it took to ascend to Blahammeren last year.

I get my sparkling Cairngorm day though, by midday I peering into the Ghru and its quite a sight. Large parts of the Highlands shine too in the clearest of winter days, the Ghru is choked with snow and I wonder as to whether it would be an easy journey to pass through it. To the south the Devils Point is proud and it's an arresting scene.

It's winter so I've an eye on the time. I anticipate my first night in the fringes of Rothiemurchus. Its a surprisingly difficult journey down in thick snow and I'm again reminder how long winter travel can take. On rocky ground I remove my snow shoes and then I find myself post holing to my knees before I'm donning them again.

Into the treeline as darkness falls and I get ready for the night by setting up the hot tent and stove. I've been asked several times on social media as to whether setting up this little system is a time consuming matter. With a practiced hand I can now assemble the stove, a LiteOutdoors 12inch, in fifteen minutes (if you want a little more detail on all aspects of the stove then see the collection of videos here). Obviously you need wood. I generally reckon on around 30 minutes to cut and prepare enough for a few hours. A combination of sawing small logs and the quartering by batoning, this means you can reach the driest wood for a really hot blaze. You'll need two bits of additional kit for this, a basic knife and saw such as this .

The next day and a half is an easy meander through the treeline as I head to Glen Feshie where I am to meet Marc for Saturday night. I love the forests of the Cairngorms and traveling through the old pines is a sensual experience in the snow.

I spend Friday night deep in Inshriach, hiking hard off trail into the heart of the forest. If you look at a map of the Boreal forest you'll see it extends as far south a Scotland. In this snow it's easy to conceive of that.

This is a trip of bothies too. Inshriach brings Drakes which is fairly basic. The most striking perhaps in Scotland can be found in Feshie and I pass Ruigh Aitachean a little after lunchtime on Saturday. There's a man chopping wood outside and he stops to talk to me, Lindsey is keen to show off the bothy but Im conscious of the dying of the light and want to get to my favoured place at the far end of the glen.

Saturday night is a festive one. Marc arrives on a mountain bike carrying beer, wine and sausage rolls (my request!). We roast by the fire until the early hours of Sunday morning before heading to bed. Marc's in full bikepacking mode and he's in a bivvy. Next day is a slow one and I bid Marc farewell at lunchtime before I spend a very slow day preparing for another long night. Rain pulses in through the glen intermittently as I work. Consequently I light the fire early and my work brings me a hot pure blaze that night.

As Monday dawns I'm conscious I've a bit of a journey back to Aviemore. I opt for the high route over the Mhoine Mhor and hope for another day on the snow shoes. First though, as I promised him, I pop into the bothy for a quick tour. Lindsey is expecting me

It's incredible the change that the long restoration has bought. The work is of the highest quality and the once standard dingy interior is bright and welcoming. There are two Jotul stoves pumping out heat and the insulation that's been built into the bothy means it feels as warm as any standard domestic house.

Lindsey is the local MBA rep and he's clearly in the bothy for an extended stay. He explains the estate's vision for this bothy, one that perhaps is intended to attract a slightly less experienced bothy crowd. The estate is going to take a keen interest in the daily running of this bothy too with ghillies and other workers ensuring that visitors know that they are around and a certain standard of behaviour is expected.

Personally, I think that's reasonable but that may not be to everyone's expectation of what bothying is about. I resist Lindsey's offer of a coffee and he understands that I've a long journey ahead.

The rest of the day is a proper winter journey. As I climb onto the Mhoine Mhor it's clear that the only way I'm going to get across this with any expedience is to don my snow shoes. The scene is incredible, I really feel I've slipped into Britain's arctic as this huge white space reveals itself.

The snowshoeing is hugely enjoyable. This snow is packed and consolidated and it's very easy to travel across.

The real challenge of the day comes in the descent to Loch Einich. The summer path is obscured by snow and ice and as I descend I quickly realise that this is a potentially very dangerous place to be. I don spikes and have my ice axe in hand and one section of steep ice demands my full concentration. Simply it is a relief to reach the loch as darkness starts to fall. I then have a long journey along the estate paths to Coylumbridge by the light of my head torch.

I'm back in Aviemore after being picked up by Gerry with just enough time for a quick visit to the chip shop before I jump on the Sleeper. I'm grateful for my bed that night and really feel the day.

A good winter trip though, the last day particularly as my snow shoes were less of a toy and more of a serious aid to the journey. The hot tent as ever is a joy and makes long winter night very pleasurable. It makes living in cold and wet weather easy and I'm surprised more people don't do it. Above all another 'shakedown' before Sweden in March where the temperatures are much more serious. Some points to think about not least the need to keep a high standard of physical fitness. 

Winter's here and with it a different style of backpacking. Short days and long nights in the context of cold. I used to feel it almost a pointless season to venture out in. Why subject yourself to the discomfort of the conditions and try and squeeze some meaning out of the few hours of daylight? Stay indoors and wait till Spring, that's when the real business starts!

But in recent years I've had some of my best outings. Indeed, I'm working towards long extended trips, either on snowshoe or ski, in Scandinavia throughout the long snowbound season. Winter has an advantage, not least in Sweden or Norway it can be easier to travel across snow covered ground than battling the terrain that the summer can expose.

That's less of an issue in the UK but winter brings something else, it gives a depth of wildness to our hills and can really intensify the experiencing of being out. Get it right and some of the best trips of the year are to be had in our remaining big space.

I start this winter season with a five day run through Galloway. My first trip to the Borders in January made clear to me that here lies a real alternative to the Highlands. I start this one from the small town of Newton Stewart in Dumfries and spend a leisurely four days meandering through the 'highlands of the lowlands'.

Not so much a trip through the hills but amongst them. I wanted to check out a couple of the bothies in the Forest Park and got a sense of how they're used. My first day out takes me past White Laggan which was occupied by four friendly lads from Stoke. I pop my head around the door a little after lunch and they're very much at home with a roaring fire and a stack of beer. Easily achieved as they've driven here down the forest tracks and had a walk of no more than 500 metres to the bothy from the car. That said I would have happily spent the night in their company and politely decline both their offer of tea and beer.

My purpose really this trip is to reacquaint myself with my hot tent. I'll be back in Sweden in March so a few trips before then seems like a good idea. It's a slightly different form of being out, one that really demands a ready access to wood to make it as organic as possible.

It's also absurdly comfortable and this trip is no exception. For my first couple of nights I find the flattest pitch possible by Loch Dee and set camp. No easy feat, Galloway has some of the roughest ground I've encountered. I was warned by my Paddy Dillon guidebook mind, he recounts advice given by the OMM Mountain Marathon which threatens it's competitors with some of the hardest going in the British hills.

Loch Dee though is an idyll. Framed in it's winter garb it is striking and time slips by during my two night stay.

And it's cold too. I'm in a sheltered pitch but venture out to collect fuel or water and the wind cuts deep off the loch. Only an hour or so from Glasgow but this place feels like a real wilderness in these conditions.

But I've a hearth and home to retreat to and the experience is sumptuous. Spruce gives decent firewood and with a bit of work with my saw and knife I expose dry resinous wood. Evenings are blissful with whisky and wine. Company through the BBC Radioplayer and I indulge myself in the adaption of Joseph Conrad's biography.

On the Sunday I pack up and move north. There's a little more work in packing up the tent and stove but I'm pleased that from waking I can be breakfasted and away in 90 mins.

Reluctantly I leave Loch Dee and take a high line around the hills to my next destination.

Down below is the Backhill O Bush and I'm keen to visit this second Galloway bothy. In the park the bothies have a reputation for vandalism and as drinking dens. On this Sunday morning I pick up the forestry road and am surprised to have to stand aside for three cars and a caravan. Two walkers a few minutes later confirm that the bothy was full last night and people are making their way out.

But the bothy is in good order as I push the latch on the door. Still warm from a roaring stove the only real sign of the night before is a smell of frying hanging in the air. It's heartening to see that both bothies are in good nick and respected by their users.

One last night in the tent and then the walk out to Dalmellington. I have another comfortable night and the contrast between the warmth inside and the foul conditions out is marked. So with kit and techniques reacquainted with I feel ready for the season ahead.

Winter's here, enjoy it!

Alex Roddie, the TGO Online Editor, has put together a rather nice feature on the appeal of Scandinavia to UK walkers. A nice looking piece which is very well put together.
Read it here.