In a little under a week I’ll be in Norway again, my third and final Scandinavian trip of the year. Each season brings a delightful difference  and I’m very much looking forward to a 10 day or so autumn tour through Northern Finnmark and which will include a significant part of the walk through the national park of Stabbursdalen.

September is, in many ways, the best month to get out on foot through the wilderness of Scandinavia. Cooler temperatures make walking a far more comfortable experience than the heat of summer. The insects are mostly gone and the fells should blaze with fiery birch. And if you’re very lucky you may catch the Aurora.

I’ve never been to Finnmark before so it will all be wonderfully new. The wide ‘vidda’ of the region promises some good walking on a mountain plateau dotted with low lying fells and hundreds of tarns. There will be some change after I’ve crossed from Karasjok up towards Alta. From there I enter Stabbursdalen which looks enticing. I know little about it but I’m excited but what could be there. This site has some intriguing pictures http://www.turgleder.com/?project=packrafting-in-stabbursdalen-national-park and it promises that ‘Stabbursdalen National Park is one of Norway’s most remote and inaccessible National Parks. The diverse landscape varies from mountain desert like areas to lush birch forests, vast plateaus to narrow canyon like valleys’. I find this whole area intriguing. There is a lot of potential up here and watching Lars Monsen's Nordkalot 365 has shone a light on a hitherto unexplored place for me. Already my head is full of future plans threading Norwegian and Finnish parks together.

I’m going to take my time on this trip. No rushing about as I did a few weeks ago. I’m going bushcrafty too, taking an axe and a small tarp to sit under by a fire. the weather promises to be cool and possibly cloudy but we shall see. In any event a lot to look forward to. 

Day 1. Karasjok to Ravnastua.

The first stage of the walk is well travelled. Connie Roos in her book ‘Walking in Norway’ describes a five day walk of around 60km. I’ll be following her 'Far North' walk.

My walk starts from the Sami capital of Karasjok. 17km across the plateau following a number of lakes and rivers should put me near the old farm which now form a government mountain lodge at Ravnastua (http://www.ravnastua.no/ravnastua-2/).
Apparently the original Fjellstue was burnt down by retreating German soldiers in 1945. I would anticipate a shorter finish than the fjellstue and there is most likely a camp by the huge lake of Gaimmejavri to be had.

Day 2. Ravnastua to Mollisjok.

Roos describes this as ‘a long day, but not at all taxing’ at 25km. The map shows a trail, I understand that I’m following an old wilderness postal route. Half way there is a ‘odestue’ or emergency shelter with bunks even. The terrain looks wide and expansive with the promise of extensive views. Mollisjokk is another fjellstue (http://www.mollisjokfjellstue.no/).

Day 3. Mollisjok to Jotkajav’ri.

This is a nominal day skirting the huge lake Lesjavri as I follow a track north to Jotkajav’ri. There is potential to break off the Roos route earlier and follow the shoreline of Lesjavri as I now focus my attention on travelling up into Stabbursdalen.

Days 4.to 10 Jotkajav’ri/Stabbursdalen/Alta.

And this is the fun bit. No real plan, just to freewheel north. There’s a line of fells that have taken my eyes and these could provide a day’s entertainment at least as well as commanding views of the region. Skuovgilrassa and Cohkarassa are the most shapely (http://oppialta.no/topperinord.htm).

But the real promise lies in exploring the canyons and forests that line the huge Stabburselva. At some point I will have to cross it, the Norwegian ‘Fjellforum’ suggests it is fordable at some points but I will have to find them. By Sunday morning I need to be heading towards Alta. Tverrdalen offers a natural route out. Hotel booked in Alta for Sunday and then two flights get me back to the UK.

Some new Paramo to play with, the new Velez smock with it's zip system that allows full venting on the front. Other than that some standard stuff, not least the Trekkertent Drift 2 which is a fantastic touring tent.

If you are inclined keep an eye out on Twitter.

I'm still feeling this walk. A few days back from Norway and I tried a light run. My body is fatigued, fourteen days across the Scandinavian fells and it's hard to break out into more than a trot. I've lost a lot of weight and there's the odd bite still on my arms or head that begs to be scratched. Kit is slowly being cleaned and sorted, some indeed repaired. There's much to reflect upon, ultimately satisfaction in the distance covered but some key learning points to take on too. So many years into doing this and I'm still capable of mistakes.

This was an ambitious walk. Between Ringselet, my start, and Narvik, my finish, lies around 400 km of hard mountain terrain. Some of this was covered by air (60 kms between Kutjaure and Stalo) and a little by road (35 km from Evesgard to Narvik), but the remainder was on foot across mainly trackless mountain over the course of a fortnight. Trail conditions varied, as did the weather's effect on my perceptions of those conditions. Heat and mosquitos ratcheted up the effect of that distance, particularly in the first week. Quite a bit of that journey was across hard and unyielding terrain, piling through thick bush or boggy fells. A sense of time pressure as I raced to get to Staloluokta, no walking day shorter than ten hours with some even twelve, a lot of graft. I don't really do electronic devices in the planning or a recording of a walk. It's an old eye on paper map to plan and an idea of the hours walked in a day and the nature of the terrain. I was most likely on foot for around 170 hours across some hard terrain. Plenty of weariness and it's effect on the course of the journey. A few hours lost even as I make a silly navigation mistake at the end of another long day and head up the wrong  'jokk (river) deep into the heart of the Norwegian mountains. Fatigue and fallibility, indifferent to my need to close the ground between me and my finish, as the days tick down to the flight back home from Narvik.

The start though of this little adventure is the simple act of hailing a bus on a Swedish island in the midst of the Baltic, very much an opposite end of Scandinavia to the one I'm to fly from in two weeks. Outside the small seaside cottage on the island of Gotland I hug nine people with affection before heading to Visby, board the bus and start a twelve hour journey to the Lapland town of Arjeplog. It feels right to begin a mountain trip like this. When I lived here many years ago I would regularly bid my wife and then young children a fond farewell and head north. Away from the weathered pines and sands of the Baltic and up to the birch and fells of the sub-arctic. The start then of a long and enduring love affair with the Swedish mountains.

The most prolonged embrace of that relationship has undoubtedly been my 56 days south to north crossing of this mountain chain. During that journey I was struck by many things. One was the extent of it all, the other was how most people up to walk, ski and climb concentrate themselves in a few key areas. Simply, there's a lot out there which is seldom visited and I itch to see as much of it as possible.

I'd cooked up a plan on this one which I've posted about previously. I'd a notion to cross Arjeplogfjallen, one born from an idle moment a few years ago when I picked up an old battered guidebook from the Seventies on these forgotten mountains. As I sat by the stove one night in a Swedish hut, amidst pictures of the decade that I was born in, long haired healthy Swedes, cradled by the 'folkhemmet' albeit momentarily burdened with heavy external framed rucksacks, strode across these stony hills in stark black and white. The book declared that few people walk here and the unique character of these fells did not deserve that. Much has changed since then; the country is more individualistic and plural, most (not all) of those rucksacks have fallen from service. One constant though is how little visited these hills remain.

It's good to be north again, Arjeplog is a pleasant town, I arrive after a flight to Arvidsjaur from Stockholm and then my own personal minibus arranged through the local transport authority to Arjeplog itself. Small town Lapland but it's got what I require. Most important is the bus which I'm to catch at lunchtime the next day, straight down the E95 to my dropping off point at Ringselet. Apart from that it's other key logistical factor is that it has all you need. A couple of standard issue pizzerias, two supermarkets and an outdoor shop pepper the high street. A decent hotel too from which I watch heavy rain fall into the car park outside for many hours and wonder if I'll be spending days walking in similar torrents.

In better weather next day it's time to leave the comfort of the hotel and out I go, the last building that I'm in for twelve days. I'm not alone though in using that bus to head off into the wilds, it's summer time and the fells are a destination for many. The four other passengers are heading to Jackvik, a key Kungsleden intersection, a fairly standard drop off by all accounts. Ringselet though is by no means a normal destination for walkers, just a lake by the highway but with a rough road that takes me up to Tjarnberg and then continues to it's end by a reindeer slaughter house. From there just wilderness, you'll find the next road several hundred miles to the north.

We arrive at Ringselet, a non-descript bus stop but the start of the enterprise for me and I have a sense of nervousness as we pull up at the side of the road. A warm conversation with the bus driver as he helps pull my pack out of the luggage rack at the back, I'm a curiousity as a foreigner speaking Swedish is always an oddity. Then he's gone and I put the pack on for the first time. I'm loaded with enough supplies for a week and the pack feels heavy and awkward. Indeed, it's not just the pack that's feeling weighty. A good week's summer holiday with liberal beers and barbeques has taken an effect. Let's call it preloading but undeniably more than should be there as hip belt tightened. And so, at 1530 in the afternoon and just under two weeks until I finish, away I go and up the dirt road north.

The first miles are a slog. Past Tjarnberg where a helicopter is being attended to and up the road I head through a forest of birch. Tedious but at least it's fairly short. I spent three days in 2013 walking road like this as I headed through the lows fells of southern Jamtland. This time the journey is to be short, simply a way to ease myself up into the fells and the start of the journey proper. A stroke of luck though and something I couldn't have done on the Grona Bandet. I pass a Sami family group sitting by a smoking fire as they ward of the mosquitos enough to enjoy coffee. Within five minutes of passing a trail bike with trailer roars up the road and a grinning Sami teenager commands 'kom igen' when I initially refuse a ride in the back. We breeze the remainder of the dirt road.

And so it begins properly, by the reindeer slaughter house at the end of the track I pull on the pack again and work my way up onto the fell.

The walk feels more real after an hour or so pushing up hill and beyond the treeline. Feet are wetted in a river crossing and my clothes pick up their initial soiling. A bit of sweat, toil and soggy feet and it all begins to feel familiar. That feeling is only enhanced when by about 1900 I've decided I've done enough and I throw the tent down and pitch for the first time. As I do I'm crowded by tens of mosquitos which only intensifies as the wind dies down with the ebb of the day. It's to be a bad year for mosquitos. Relief only coming many days later as the weather becomes much more unsettled as I cross into Norway, the upside of wet and cold weather.

Wednesday morning and I crawl out of the tent on a bright morning, day 2 has begun. I've camped a couple of kilometres from the Arctic Circle, clear on the map but the landscapes indifferent. From the clutch of tarns that I've spent the night in underneath the fell of Tjidtjak I've set myself a fairly easy first full day with around 15kms of walking. Distance and my ability to cover it becomes an issue on this walk. Not so much my physical ability to pull the miles in, I find that easy on a maintained trail for sure. Rather, it's the nature of the terrain that I'm to cross over the course of the fortnight and the pressure to reach end points.

Today is first instance of it. The first hour or so across open fell is easy enough. Then it's a downward trajectory as I aim for the bridge marked on the map that fords the connecting river between the lakes of Lulep Luojavrre and Gruombajavrre. Both are part of the water system that feeds into the huge lake of Riebnes which forces Kungsleden walkers 30 km to the east of me to arrange boat transport.

Whilst I may have the ease of a simple bridge crossing compared to the Kungsleden I pay for it with some tough bushwhacking. Low birch forest, sub-arctic bog and dwarf will brake my progress significantly. As I slow in the heat of the day clouds of insects surround me. Hard, hard work and to be repeated at several points over the next few days.

By lunchtime, much later than I anticipate, I am delighted to see a bridge. This feels a very remote spot indeed and there is no guarantee of anything. However, I'm in reindeer herder country and the bridge serves that ancient function as it connects mountain pasture to lakeside Sami huts. I'm very grateful for it, the waters flow fast and would be totally unfordable as a torrent flows from a higher lake into its lower counterpart. Not for the first time I'm reminded about the power of water and Lapland and what a significant obstacle it is to the hiker.

I struggle up from the bridge through thick bush again. The map shows a rough trail from a collection of Sami huts at Gruuombe to some reindeer pens at Gadagavre but there's no sign on the ground. Simply more birch and bog. The twin lakes though on the fell are stunning and offer an easy choice of sites for my second night.

The third day dawns bright and with the sun climbing the sky the threat of another hot one. I notice that the mornings remain cool until about 0730, the first mosquitos then appear around 0800. I work quickly to get away before they become too bothersome. A similar day today in many respects, more descent off the fell side and pushing into bush. A significant water crossing again, this one though has no bridge and it's a roll of the dice on whether I'll be able to ford the point which I've selected. Again this is a series of lakes and rivers which now stretch for 50km west to east across Arjeplogfjallen. If I get stuck on this it is a very big detour, one which could potential throw my objective of Staloluokata in five days into serious doubt.

The water system comes into view as I make my descent off the fell. I'm nervous as I scan the waters. My intended cross point is foaming white as I recce the connecting rivers with my zoom lens. I pick a point though and descend, scanning constantly and trying to formulate plans B, C and D in case it all goes wrong.

As I get nearer I'm looking at the water for signs. Rippling, not quiet water, is what I want. Any breaking stones are a good sign too. A point selected by scanning the river from the fell side my allotted crossing point looks promising as I approach, I step in and give it a go. Cold is instant and I brace. The crossing though goes all right until I hit mid-stream. The water is strong and almost at my groin, just on the verge of knocking me over as I fight on. Diagonal and upstream I push, the current threatening to rip my poles out of my hand. But as I work on the current eases and I'm out and across. I'm delighted, a significant obstacle overcome.

I climb out of the bush and ascend up in a positive mind set. The fell of Gustar throws a wall above the lake system as I climb. After an hour I'm walking on open fell dotted with small tarns. Above me a helicopter chatters across the sky, probably bound for the remote fishing camp of Miekak which is my destination tomorrow.

This massif is the midst of Arjeplogfjallen and it's what I came for, mountain and lakes empty and nothing nor nobody in sight.

Despite the reward of this place I feel the pressure of time as I push on. Stalouokta is a significant point in this whole journey and it's one I've got to make in time, I've a helicopter booked for the following Tuesday, my eighth day. I've counted on enough ground in time to get my there on Monday. That planning though was done prone on my bed at home, beer in easy reach. The execution of that casual planning though is much more effort and I begin to fret.

A sense of pressure no doubt and I'm now turning out longer days then I would like. As I head to another system of tarns at Maskosjavre I'm pushing myself on despite it being 1830 in the evening and at least an hour after I would like to stop. Not what I would ideally do and I now consider the folly of planning a walk stretched out on a bed, casualness laced with optimism causing my eye to lightly dance over contour lines and space before concluding a 25km day across rugged fell is a breeze.

Daylight is constant at this time of year though there's a sense of evening as I push on. At last I've reached somewhere where I've felt I've done enough for the day. Conscience assuaged though shoulders ache. By a tarn simply referred to by it's spot height of '910' I throw the bag down with considerable relief  and begin to assemble camp. As the wind drops the fell of Vierkejtjahkka is mirrored in the water.

 And in the evening heat of early August insects cloud the shore line. There's an intensity to life lived in this hot sub-arctic day. Summer is short, it must be grabbed. I struggle with mosquitos again in the heat of the evening.

Day 4 dawns and I'm away by 0900. Another day of crossing high fells before plunging down into bush and part of a further extensive lake system which emanates from the Norwegian border many miles away. Significantly, I'm to pass by the very remote fishing camp at Meikak. By the looks of it's website it's a Shangri-La for serious fishermen. Reached only by heli in summer the rewards for the expense of reaching and staying here in some comfort are the wildest waters to fish in in Europe.

The routine of the day is similar to the last two. The difference though is getting through the bush around Miehkak. The day proves to be extremely challenging.

The first hours are ok enough. The terrain is high fell and whilst certainly rocky and broken at parts very much what I would expect from the situation. I follow the large tarn of Njuosejavrre before beginning to descend. For the first time in days I see evidence of the proximity of others. There are two small huts by the lake, part of the fishing camp no doubt. One has an open door and smoke rising from a chimney. I can imagine it's warm and dry in there as the weather becomes more unsettled and rain streaks the fell as I push on.

I catch conversation on the wind as I turn my back on those two human outposts. I'm very comfortable with my elected solitude on these walks but occasionally there are stabs of loneliness. I'm in one now as a shower envelopes me for the first time this walk.

Soon forgotten as I catch sight of Miehkak. As I descend the terrain around the lakeside becomes more apparent. It is stunningly beautiful, really so, but it looks like it's going to be a difficult route. Whilst mountain birch and exposed rock give a clear character the resulting thick rock and forest bar the way to the two bridges that I need to regain the high fells on the north side. That said this place is captivating, unique even. I readily understand why people would pay thousands to travel out to the fishing camp.

As the crow flies the distance between when I descend from the fells and when I regain them again is only a matter of a few kilometres. A boat of some sorts would make light work of this. The journey though takes almost all day as I fight me way around the headlands of the lake looking for the two bridges to cross the roaring waters that feed the lake. I muse on the advantage of a packraft. A notion which resurfaces several times again this walk.

I hike hard around the lake's headlands. The rock presents cliff faces at the shoreline and when I'm not pushing hard through bog or forest I'm climbing the sheer cliffs trying desperately to find the most efficient way through to the second bridge which spands the torrent tumbling out of the huge water systems to the north east. My struggle is in contrast to the serenity of the scene. On the glassy lake a small boat potters across before stopping. A single fisherman casts and watches the water's surface. I'm envious of both his leisure and his skill.

I find the bridge and begin to climb. Direct up and hard going again, it takes an hour to break through the treeline. Hot and sweaty I'm crowded by insects. Despite the toil I can't fail to note that it's certainly an impressive place with the waters roaring into Alep Miehkak.

Hurting a little now as I'm determined to clear this part of the walk, in effect to feel that I've turned a page in the walk and start the next stage of the journey through Sartavagge to Vaimok. Though it's 1800 I chide myself and resolve to walk a further couple of hours. Slipping and stumbling in the birch forest I have one of those moments when I wonder why I do this.

But as I climb onto open fell that questioning of this project ceases as I turn and just drink the view in. The water system I've just crossed stretches far. At the end of it is the huge lake Piesakhaure which I've walked around twice. At the end, around 50km away, is the Norwegian border.

And this is why I love Lapland, it's the depth of the wilderness here and a sense that for the most part it's unsullied. For relatively little effort and expense from the UK there are real wild lands not far.

By 2000 I've done enough. It's been a hard day and one in which I've eaten little, just pushed on grim faced. I throw the pack of and just about summon up enough energy to set up camp. But the spot I stumbled on more than selected is a sweet one. A flat grassy pitch, stunning views, a breeze to deter insects and a companionable stream to draw water from.

I rise early again ready to press on. Pleased with yesterday's progress I relax somewhat and appreciate a little more the place that I am in. This is the 20km valley of Sartavagge, a deep glacial valley jewelled with lakes and I'm to head north to break out of Arjeplogfjallen and towards the STF hut at Vaimok.

The hill walker in me is very appreciative of this valley. On the eastern flank five hills, quite the walk for the very energetic with the opportunity to summit Staikka at nearly 1800 metres. There can't be many who've done that. I muse about about the setting up of a base camp one day and a crack at these summits. So much possibility here in these mountains, a single lifetime would not be enough.

Today though is about pressing beyond Vaimok and turning another page in the story. The long glacial valley of Sartavagge presents an easier walk. It's another hot day and mosquitoes harass me for it. I spend the day with the head net fully on or worn, like some mountain walking nun, as a habit to keep them off the back of my head.

Five hours and I round out to the huge lake of Vaimok. It's an impressive place, reputedly Sweden's clearest. In the distance the huge shape of Sulitjelma and I'm struck by how much snow it still holds. I'm to discover in a week's time exactly how much snow remains on the Norwegian side of the border.

A little more leisurely today, I stop for lunch and just gaze at the lake. I knew it was going to be good. Not for the last time this walk I'm to think of the late Roger Brown. He declared in his arrival at this lake that he realised this was exactly the place that he had embarked upon the 800km Nordkalotleden in order to see.

I'm assisted along the northern side of the lake by the Nordkalotleden itself, after hard days' cross country slog there is an ease to following a well trodden path. This one leads to the hut at Vaimok. I break before it and head up, direct north and my two day route to Sulitjelma. I'm to follow a route now devised by the Swedish outdoors journalist Claes Grundsten in his book 'Pa Fjalltur - Padjelanta och Sulitjelma'.

It's a fine route, indeed an alternative to the Nordkalotleden and one that holds a quicker and a higher line between Vaimok and Staloloukta. I'm to spend two glorious days in snow streaked montane.

Camp that night is a fine one. The situation is striking, patches of old snow add considerable character as I find another yielding patch of grass with a convenient en suite stream.

Grundsten has this down as a two day route to Stalo. It is that certainly, for me it feels like a fairly relaxed two days. The walking is interesting yet, in comparison to my last few days, untaxing across firm ground.

The centre piece is the lake systems at Ravajavvrre, again adorned with snow. In good weather I make quick progress. Grade A stuff this and ignored by the majority who schlep the trails in the valleys below.

Indeed, there's even time to stop and admire. I find a sublime potential campsite, clearly used by others in the past but none the worse for that, at the eastern end of the lake. Grass leads to a small sandy beach and I struggle with the idea of calling it a day at 1500 and camping here.

But I press on, climbing and clearing the col at Viejevagge. The weather worsens as I follow the 'jokk down. It's one of those moments in Lapland that feel distinctly Scottish. It's easy to see the relationship between the two, indeed singular, mountain systems.

Day 7 and as I walk the 12km or so to Stalo I feel a sense of holiday. I'm well within the deadline I set myself and I enjoy a sense of achievement. My helicopter flight is tomorrow morning and I'll have a chance at Stalo to rest and restock. I'm in Padjelanta too, my fourth time here, and there's a human scale about the place. Indeed even, around Stalo, there's a pastoral feel with small birch groves. All, of course, is framed by the huge inland sea of Virihaure.

And as I descend, the sound of helicopters. It's hard to describe Stalo' as a village but there's a definite buzz about the place, literally, as several helicopter transfers a day bring both hikers and supplies into this wilderness settlement.

I reach Stalo at 1500hr and set up by the lakeside camping ground. by 1600 I've made my way to the small shop and I'm taken aback. When I was last here in 2009 there were a few tins and the odd packet of crispbread. Now it stocks everything you could imagine that you would need. From the entire range of Real Turmat to gas canisters to chocolate to duct tape to spare socks to blister plasters to beer. Everything that you could conceivably want is in this small kiosk. They even take cards too in payment! Whilst there is no mobile signal here data is uploaded to the helicopter once a day and taken back to Kvikkjokk. Equally, that transfer keeps stock closely monitored and the shop is restocked in the summer season at least once a day.

I'm almost giddy with the possibility and spend a fair whack but secure everything I need. If I'd known that the shop was going to be this good I would have left Ringselet with a much lighter pack. I also enjoy my first conversation in a week. The Sami woman running the shop is easy to chat too and we speak for about 20 minutes. Indeed, I'm to have a number of conversations that evening as people wander around the campsite and come up and chat.

Beer, swimming and more beer. A strong wind keeps biting insects away until it abruptly drops at 2000 and then the air is thick with them. I dive into the tent and set the alarm for the morning. I've a flight to catch.

The heli arrives at 0820 and a very relaxed pilot sorts us. He speaks with a distinct northern Swedish tone as he gets us settled in. I'm to be first out as I'm off at Kutjaure. The others are finished and are heading to Ritsem to catch the bus home.

On a fine day the journey 50km north is a spectacular one. Sarek is the main draw, we all peer right into the park. I gaze into western Padjelanta which I'll be traversing into Norway. This heli journey is easing me to the start point at the huts at Kutjaure. It takes twenty minutes to cover a walk which too me two and a half days in 2013.

Kutjaure arrives and to the surprise of many at the hut I'm dropped off. Ahhka is hard to ignore as I sort out my gear and get ready to begin the second part of my journey.

It's hard to shake off the relaxed feeling as I pick a north westerly bearing and then begin to follow the line of Siebergjahka. It's typical Padjelanta country. Broad easy going fells that over good pasture to reindeer herders. Today's ease marks the fact that this can be deadly country. Big and broad the unprepared or unfortunate have recently disappeared here.

The ground's firm but I'm feeling a little loose. I'm to drop time over the next couple of days until the realisation strikes that I've work to do and the days lengthen again. A sense of urgency grips the walk again but not today.

Camp's made by the Lake of Stibokjavrre. The fell of Stibok with it's distinct cliffs have an echo of Svalbard. I've thought about the merits of a Lapland trek vs a Svalbard one a little this walk. Not many insects in Svalbard, the extra weight though of the pack and the chore of setting the protective fence are not missed!

Again the inspiration for this part of the journey is down to Grundsten too. He describes a two day route to Hellebotn (a deep Norwegian Fjord which can be accessed by boat). I'm using part of it and then a northwards break over the fells to access the Nordkalotleden as it crosses Suollagajahhka.

Day 8 of this walk and I'm enjoying this quiet country, unwalked by most and the only company I have are a herd of inquisitive reindeer. I'm also walking at Grundsten's pace, it's an agreeable one.

At the foot of impressive Rautaive I'm spoilt for choice as I search for a pitch that night. One of the earliest camps of the trip. I'm rather seduced by the fact that I'm to pick up the path of the Nordkalotleden which I perceive as an easy way to push me north before I break off it and head deeper into Narvikfjellen and my eventually exit point of Beisfjord. I discover in about 24 hours the folly of my thinking.

Within a minute of packing up camp I spy the Nordkalotleden when I cross the brow of a ridge. Two tents are parked by the bridge and within an hour a heli swoops down and picks them up. I'm anticipating an easy day on a marked trail but that notion is mistaken. The route travels over rocky terrain which becomes slick during the course of the day. The good weather I've had disappears and unsettled conditions now hold firm.

By the afternoon the realisation that this is taking a lot longer than I might have anticipated. Tiredness too falls with the rain. I begin to struggle and make a navigational mistake which is to cost me several hours. Assuming that I'm on the correct route for the hut at Roysvatn. I climb higher into the murky mountains, crossing the Norwegian border for the first time and realising my mistake at about 2000 that evening.

The next morning I'm several hours in deficit. It takes considerable time to return to my intended route and I follow the trail to Pauro. On the plus side by lunch time the walking becomes much easier as I leave bouldery paths behind. Today is a day of following huge lakes. It is stunningly beautiful and a really wild feel. I even meet the first folk since leaving Kutjaure and enjoy a chat with an elderly Norwegian couple out on tour,

As I sight the lake at Kabtajaure I have cause again to reflect upon the utility of a packraft on a trip like this. I could have crossed the lake in about twenty minutes, instead I have to round it's feeder lake of Bovrojavri at the expense of at least half a day's walking. I investigate the possibililty of fording a river that connects the two but the depth and force of the flow spells danger, 

Arguably if I'd done that I would have missed one of the most interesting aspects of the Nordkalotleden, A few km short of the hut at Pauro one of the most peculiar bridges I've encountered. I watch a young couple cross it, we meet each other a few minutes later. The man's first response to my greeting is to explain how lucky I am! Apparently the boat is on the right side, I'm unsure as to what any of this means though. He explains further, there should be two boats at a gap in the lakes which allow hikers to get to the opposite sides. There is only one at present, one has washed away. If you're unlucky then the choices are swimming or a 10km detour abound the lake. I'm to read a little more about it as I eat lunch in the hut.

My boat journey is uneventful. I get a sense though of the strength of the current and the chill of the water. This lake, even in August, is holding a lot of ice. You would have to grit your teeth hard before jumping in.

At least traveling in the direction I venture would give you an opportunity to warm up by a roaring stove in the huts. Again, I'm grateful for the small miracle that is the DNT key.

I enter the first building for ten days. This hut is another testament to the mountain culture of Norway. A beautiful, homely and welcoming respite from the harshness of the wilderness outside.

To sit on soft furnishings as I eat lunch and I begin to feel like a civilised man again.

There is nothing I would want more at that moment in time then to stay here. To get the stove going, grab a bunk in one of the two bedrooms and to start to relax. But I've no time. It's dawned on me over the last 24 hours that I am falling short by about two days. I spend about 45 minutes going over my options and that to push on to Beisfjord from where there is an hourly bus to Narvik is wholly unrealistic. That leaves me with the problem though of getting back to Narvik. No signal and no information in the hut I'm taking a gamble on choosing a route down to the small village of Elvegard and hoping that there is some bus services from there.

Picking myself up and pushing on I'm at least reward with more good walking and a lovely camp. With cooler conditions now in charge insects have disappeared and to sit out on the first dry evening in three is a treat. I have time to reflect again on how I'm to get back to Narvik. With two full days left there is only one option and that is to descend to Elvesgard.

My last full day and I follow the trail to Sitasjaure where I find another spotless hut. Again this offers a good lunch spot and there are warnings about trail conditions in the hut book. What occupies me in my direction of travel are my chances of getting out of Elvesgard and toward Narvik without a grim 40 km of walking down the highway. A little after leaving the hut I get a signal and a timetable is downloaded. I see, as I suspected, that there are a couple of buses which are there to service schoolchildren. I am to misread one crucial detail which becomes apparent next day.

A final night on the trail. Whilst hydro is present as I near civilisation the situation is still striking. The mountains have a saga like character and a sense of height that is hastened by the fact that they fall dramatically to sea level. A real contrast to my beginnings some thirteen days ago in Ringselet.

A final camp before I descend to the valley below. Houses are now evident and I'm fairly optimistic about picking up the bus and getting to Narvik, Indeed I even use my smartphone to book a hotel in Narvik. But as I stand by the bus stop later that afternoon and no bus appears the penny drops. I look again, the timetable, in Norwegian, declares buses only run on schooldays. It is of course one week before Norwegian schools go back. I have a big problem.

I call the tourist office in Narvik and they confirm what I suspected. It will cost many hundreds of pounds for a taxi to come out and fetch me on a 70 km round trip, this is Norway after all. But then two pieces of magic. First a woman comes out of a nearby property and explains to me in Norwegian that there are no buses. She tells me that if I'm prepared to wait two hours she'll drive me to a bus stop, however, there's 'ingen skam' (no shame) in hitchhiking so perhaps I should give it a go and if I'm not there at five she'll will know that I had some luck.

Within five minutes I've a lift. A woman driving her daughter to football practice drives me all the way to my hotel in Narvik. Simply incredible, Norway is a country where if you've tumbled out of the hills after two weeks and stand by the road in soiled mountain clothes then you've been out doing something totally normal. One of the many reasons why I love it so.

And so within two hours of despairing as to how I'm to get to Narvik I'm sitting in a hotel room in my underpants drinking beer, awesome! I begin to reflect and I continue to do so. Some things went very right, I got the correct amount of food albeit I was starting to get a little hungry at the end. My kit was spot on and I had the right clothing, tent and sleeping equipment.

This was an ambitious walk. I fell short by two days so I guess my planning was a little optimistic. That said trail conditions were tough and I coped well. I'll take note though of one important thing, I'll be more careful in planning alternative exit routes from the hills where they are available, I could have come stuck in Elvegard. Generally I would have preferred more time in camp too, that's when you've time to stop and take it all in. The small details of a walk need attention, it's important. Always something to learn, so forward!

In a little under a day I'll be flying to Sweden to a family beach holiday in the south before heading back north. This time it's Lapland and I'll be looking forward to returning for the first time in four years. My Grona Bandet was such a feast that I needed to digest that, it's now time to go back and I'm relishing the potential challenge that this route presents.

What my Grona Bandet gave me was the sense of the huge expense and possibility that exists in Scandinavia's mountains. I may have covered just under 1000 miles in two months but in some ways I just saw a slither of what is there. You could spend several life times traversing these mountains and still not exhaust it all.

Fittingly perhaps this journey starts not far from the best section of my Grona Bandet and in many a way it adopts what I liked best about it. Crossing parts of the mountains way off people's radars and on a route of my own devising. The start is through Arjeplogg fjallen, not far from V'jalme and heads north a described. It's very wild country but intriguingly, as you'll read, there's the potential to visit to a remote fishing camp.

Stalo forms the mid point of the walk and my main resupply option. Not obsessed with lightweight certainly but I am taking a conscious decision to guard against taking too much food. Options though are not abundant this trip, the STF huts I pass have no food stocks and on the Norwegian side of the border, this far north, there are no self service options.

I'll see what I can source at Stalo and hope I can cobble together enough for the second week. I'm taking enough basic rations for ten days and have some leeway.

Stalo is significant too as I will be using it to grab the heli up the trail. I'm being dropped off at Kutjaure before heading into wild Padjelanta before picking up the Nordkalotleden and a meander to the environs of Narvik. This Narvik section should be good. Very quiet but stacked full of huts, trails and shapely mountains. A massive contrast to the busy Kungsleden about 50 km to the east.

It should be a good walk. Enough challenge and some long distances, hopefully some down time too with spectacular camps and a few interesting huts on very quiet trails. So for more detail have a look at my trip notes below which have helped me plan and estimate my journey and also provide my family with an idea of where I may be at a given time. There's one days' slack in the timetable too. I may need it as some day's are long and poor weather can quickly slow things down!

Day 1 - Ringselet/Spira

Bus leaves Arjeplog bus station at 1330. Should arrive Ringselet, at 1500hrs. Using a service road which connects a reindeer slaughter house to the highway some 10 km away I will walk to the Sami village of Tjarnberg. Here I pick up a rough trail which will take me another 6km to just above the tree line and a collection of Sami huts at Spira where I will pitch for the night.

Day 2 - Spira/Guksek

My first full walking day involves following a rough footpath for about 8km across open fell before heading down backing into the treeline and crossing over the footbridge a small river which feeds lake Gruombajavrre, Mid point in that morning’s walk I cross the Arctic Circle. Climbing back into the high fells from a number of Sami huts at Gruomba another 6km should see me crest the fells past Gadggavre and then back down to the lake of Guksek.

Day 3 - Guksek/Miekak

This has the feeling of a long day across country. Betting the farm somewhat on crossing potentially fast flowing water flowing feeding Bartavrre I handrail a system of lakes almost due north for 6 km. A lone reindeer herder’s hut marks the point where I turn NNW and handrail a beck which tumbles down from the tarn of Vapsagurra. 10km the across high fell using the large tarn of Njarggalisjavrre as an aiming off point I’ll crest the high fells above Lulep Miehkak looking for the bridge down below bringing me into the locality of the fishing camp at Miehkak.

Day 4 - Miekak/Vaimokstugan

Hut to hut but another long day across country. Starting from the locality of Miehkak http://www.miekak.com/ (I may or may not call into the camp, there’s a basic shop supplying guests which may be of use). From there up onto the fell past Skarrebatkajavre I then follow Sartjajohhka into the long glacial valley of Sartavagge for around 15 kms until it emerges out onto the large lake of Vaimok (reputedly one of the deepest in Sweden). Skirting the lake to its east and I finally pick up part of the main trail network (this is Sulitimaleden) to Vaimokstugan.

Day 5 - Vaimokstugan/R’jaure

The STF huts at Vaimok (https://www.svenskaturistforeningen.se/anlaggningar/stf-vaimok-fjallstuga/) provide a nominal start point for the day. Using a route described by Claes Grundsten (http://www.bokus.com/bok/9789113024929/pa-fjalltur-padjelanta-sulitelma/) it’s a two day walk to the relative bustle of Salto. The route though is another two demanding days across country.

The first day of this route sees me climb from the hut for 5km before the fells present a cliff wall which stretches for 20 km west to east. Grundsten confirms though that following the small outlets from a tarn named only by its height (‘1181’) allows exploitation up onto the plateau and a myriad of lakes which are dominated by Ravejavrre. I’ll aim to camp at it’s NW edge, indeed its recommended by Grundsten with some fine spots.

Day 6 - R’jaure/Stalo

Perhaps an easier navigation day as I follow the ‘jokk in Vieggavagge before heading down to Stalo. After the climb up from camp its 4km over open fell before the valley and its deep canyon becomes apparent. About 14km through to the Sami village of Stalo (http://www.slowlife.se/eng/destinations/tarravalley_padjelanta/staloluokta/cabins.html) and a potential pitch on the shores of Virihaure.

Day 7 - Stalo/Kutjaure

The main event of the day is the 0800 heli flight to Kutjaure (http://www.fiskflyg.se/daily-flights/ritsem-staloluokta/?lang=en). Ill need too to buy some basic provisions from the small Sami shops at Stalo. Some merit in moving the flight to the following day to consider and taking half a day more to reach Stalo. This would give a some slack on the walk to Stalo, a rest half day at Stalo and more time to buy food in what would be my last opportunity.

Day 8 - Kutjaure/Valldajahka

I’ll either have camped in the vicinity of the STF huts at Kutjaure (https://www.svenskaturistforeningen.se/anlaggningar/stf-kutjaure-fjallstuga/) or have arrived on the early morning heli at 0830. In any event this heralds the start of another couple of interesting walking days as I follow another route by Claes Grundsten across country. Western Padjelanta is seldom visited and this route cuts right across it. The day consists of a 14 km handrail of Sieberjahka, rounding the large lakes of Stibokjavrre and Galbejavrre. Before crossing a large valley between Rautjaive and Coruk before heading down to meet Nordkalotleden (https://www.bradtguides.com/articles/nordkalottleden-trail/?destination=52 or more extensive Swedish description here http://www.karesuando.se/kdo/nordkalottleden.htm) and camp.
Plenty of excellent DNT huts from this point! https://www.ut.no/omrade/4.1282/

Day 9 - Valldajahka/Roysvatn

Running parallel with the Norwegian border I follow the trail directly north on the Swedisn side until it breaks into Norway and the offer of a roof for the night at the hut at Roysvatn. (https://www.ut.no/hytte/3.1655/)
 

Day 10 - Roysvatn/Pauro

A fairly short day perhaps between this two Nordkalotleden huts as the trail runs northwards wagging between Norway and Sweden. This is a borderland dotted with large lakes and several glaciated peak tops, the largest being Gihccejiekna which is very extensive. Potential finish at Pauro (https://www.ut.no/hytte/3.1653/)

Day 11 - Pauro/Skoaddajvvikhytta

Rounding the huge lake of Sitasjaure the trail breaks east. Significantly, I leave Sweden for the final time this trip. The nominal end of the day is the hut at Skoaddajvvikhytta.

Day 12 - Skoaddajvvikhytta/Cunojavrehytta

What’s nice about this section is how the trail fractures into a web of options.. My end destination is the small village of Beisfjord which lies about two days away from the start of Day 12. For planning purposes I’ve factored a day to Cunojavrehytta but shorter or longer options abound with quite a few remote huts available in the area.

Day 13 - Cunojavrehytta/Beisfjord
 
The last full day with the intent to finish with a camp in Stubblidalen. From there an early start on day 14 and 5km or so out of the mountains and direct to a bus stop for the short 20 minute ride to Narvik.

(Note - One day's slack in timetable)

I always look forward to this time of year, there's an ease in the air as the day stretches past ten in southern England and fresh greens now hold fast. The transition of late spring into early summer can be sublime in the Highlands too. Long days and gentler weather more than make up for the first of the midges and there's a lightness to being outdoors for a prolonged period if the weather is kind. Everybody seems to be planning to get out and why not. It's a gift to the backpacker and the Munroist. Simply, if you work hard you'll achieve a lot in the time.

I've traditionally taken an extended trip to Scotland in late May/early June precisely for that reason. A sweetly temperamented weather window isn't always a given and I've struggled in some years in rain and wind. This year though was some of the best weather I've ever had and I was privileged to be out in it for 12 days. Not much clag and cold this time, more heat shimmering on distant hills and the cry of Ptarmigan and Plover as I crossed remote hill tops in perfect peace.

The plan for this year was a grab at one of the largest areas of unclimbed Munros left. Over three or so trips I'd bagged Shiel and Kintail. Monar and Mullardoch were half completed years back in 2010 though odd hills remained. The biggest omission were the Strathfarrar Four and for some time I'd plotted their taking. Add to that the fag ends left of those previous trips plus a couple of bothies  and I had enough to see off a generous slice of hill time. Twelve days in fact, twelve whole glorious days of summer backpacking.

As ever I'd been keeping my weather eye (useful bit of kit that) on the forecasts. That's an excruciating process as the countdown to H-Hour takes place. First the long range forecast of the Met Office website until five or so more days before the nearest days themselves become apparent. And then the definitive reveal, MWIS, a day or two before. Much anticipated and a sign on that final office day before I grab the Sleeper north.

As the contemporary expression goes, 'I lucked out'. The headline for the period was a very extended dry spell. The complicating factor though were several days of extreme heat. If I ever needed a prompt to try and go as light as possible, this was the one. Only but the most essential kit was packed (no wine this trip, only whisky ...) and weight economies were reluctantly made. In that spirit, I left the DSLR at home and only packed the phone! Typically, I get an offer of writing a feature for TGO mid-trip and have to decline it due to sole reliance on grainy and grubby phone pics!

You can't have it all though. What I did have was a good, long, sometimes hard and  sometimes easy, absence from the 'real world'. A lot of time in the company of some of Britain's very best landscapes and the emergence twelve days later of a fitter, browner and leaner me.

The downside though was confirmation of a suspicion I've had for a while. That development by certain estates is slowly but surely eroding the remaining wild space we have. Hydro and commercial stalking, both seem to justify the expansion of road networks across remote bealachs and into far away glens. Whilst both Monar and Mullardoch certainly bear the considerable scars of long standing hydro it's the newer projects which seem to be the most devastating.

Despite this I'd been drawn into this space by its representation on OS Landranger 25. A thing of beauty indeed with the promise of big country well away from public roads and access points. Throw in numerous Munros and Corbetts, sprinkle with a number of far flung bothies and garnish with some towering waterfalls and you have a unique space.

A train to Beauly from Inverness and then an enjoyable taxi ride for the 10 or so miles to Struy Bridge. An old Highlander driving a battered vehicle adds even more colour to a perfect bright late May morn. We discuss a range of topics but its the hills we centre on most. At Struy its down the track until we get to the lodge which limits public traffic into the glen. After a conversation with the rather gruff Yorkshire woman who controls the gate I past company with the driver and begin the walk up the glen.

I've a companion this walk, a local guide if you like. Loaded on the Kindle is The Isolation Shepherd, the autobiography of the shepherd Ian Thompson. It's a potent read over the next few days as I tread the country that Thompson lived and worked in with his young family for so long. There's a poignancy in it too. Perhaps the 1950's marked the end of real isolation in the Highlands and the purity of the landscape which might be draining away now pretty rapidly. I'll leave you to read the review of Andy Howell which is certainly as good as any (http://www.andyhowell.info/trek-blog/2011/06/13/review-isolation-shepherd-by-iain-r-thomson/). What's undeniably right is that the dam at Monar marked a beginning or an end to an epoch, it was certainly the conclusion of Thompson's time there.

But as Andy Howell notes there's an enduring principal in the book and that is the elemental rawness of this area and indeed the Highlands. That's what draws me back, there is nowhere quite like it.

Nan Shepherd phrased the ambiguity of the Highland summer. The shift between 'roaring scourges' and more benign states. Her lyric in 'The Living Mountain' to describe the Cairngorms in high summer is sensuous almost, as 'delectable as honey'. My first morning is certainly like that but as I climb to begin as ascent of my first of the Strathfarrar Four I'm overcome by the heat. But when you've twelve days why not indulge? So I did, at three, a kilometre shy of my first summit I drop the backpack at a reasonable spot for the night and simply drop to the ground and sleep the rest of the heat of the afternoon away.

It's an easy night in Coire Dalnain for sure. On that first full morning I roll out of bed at a brisk six intent on getting as much walking in before the heat of the afternoon breaks my resolve again. The Strathfarrar Four pass fairly easily. I'm heading off the last one, Sgurr Fhuar-thuail by lunchtime and I work to push on a little more towards my next target Maoile Lunndaidh. But it's hot again, 33 degrees C in fact as I seriously run out of steam as I pass off the summit of the Corbett of An Sidhaen. I repeat the same detail of yesterday. I find a good spot by a small burn, drop the pack, pull my cap over my eyes as I collapse and dose.

In the thick heat of the evening it's almost otherworldly. A Golden Plover calls and my mind falls back to past walks in the extreme depths of Swedish Lapland. I love that sound, simply. Call and repeat, the sound of empty northern lands.

I roll out of bed again early and I'm pleased that I'm away from camp within an hour. The next remaining Munro, Maoile Lunndaidh, again is straightforward enough. By lunchtime I'm heading down it's northern flanks to Glenuaig. A little distance on the track and an opportunity to have a little look at the shelter next to the lodge.

It's the first of three shelters that I am to visit in the next few days. Not a bad one to be honest as it has electricity and a heater but spying through the windows of the lodge next door and marvelling at its soft furnishings provides a stark contrast. Still in filthy weather the amenities of this shelter would have much to recommend it.

A decent bench just outside it gives me a moment's repose before I pick up the track and head to the high Bealach Bearnais.

For the first time in 48 hours the weather slips and there's a freshening wind. Some respite to be honest as I cross over into Bearnais and look for a pitch.

As much as Munros this trip is an opportunity to visit a couple of bothies which have aroused my curiosity. The first is Bearnais itself which I reach around 11 am on that Sunday morning.

I'm certainly drawn into it. It has a definitive charm and an air of peace. A traditional Rowan resplendent outside and inside is a single comfortable room. I brew up and just enjoy the sense of the place. A read through the visitor's book of course and I note that the mapmakers Harvey's have recently been in the area surveying for another BMC map on Monar. That would be welcome, their mapping is second to none and this area is packed with key hills.

My joy in the place is only diminished by what appears to be a large JCB in the distance at the end of Loch an Laoigh. Indeed it is as I approach. There's hydro works going on and I stand appalled at the size of the road that's been cut into the landscape to service it.

The road has a utility for sure. It speeds me to the junction before Bendronaig Lodge before I am able to shake it off before heading on a more fitting track past Loch Calavie. Looking back at it is depressing as I see it split into two some further miles in the west. Two scars run deep westwards, quite literally defiling the landscape.

Things improve as I leave the desecration behind. The track around the loch offers good walking and I soon lose myself in back into the landscape. Indeed, I've been back on the Cape Wrath Trail since Bearnais and I'm for follow it for the next twenty four hours. My goal this afternoon is to reach the bothy of Maoll Bhuidhe, to have a quick look, and then to try and climb on a little further before pitching for the night.

I'd been this way before in 2010 as I climbed the majority of the Munros of Monar and Mullardoch. The remoteness of the area had left a considerable impression upon me and it was one that certainly did not diminish on my second visit. A serious omission on that trip was ignoring the bothy to assault the hills (which I did that trip, eventually running out of steam the next day and seeking respite on the shoreline of Mullardoch). This time I enter the glen at a more sedate temp and curving beautiful Loch Croushie replete with sandy beach I head towards the bothy.

As I approach I cant fail to notice open Velux windows upstairs and socks hanging out to dry. As I enter a polite young man appears and we fall into conversation. He's from Belgium and spending a month walking the Cape Wrath Trail.

He tells me he's been reading the history of the place and points to a piece of A4 entitled 'The Last Family at Maol Bhuidhe' (here). Indeed, it is an interesting history and one very much connected to Thompson and his family during his time in Monar. The McKays and the Thompsons formed a tight group at Monar during the fifties and were very much dependant upon each other for society and mutual assistance. McKay's piece echoes a post clearance past in lonely Highland glens. One of independence and self-reliance, of gaelic speakers and of the tramping men of the great depression. Footfall in this glen was probably lower then than now and perhaps to those that came the presence of sealed roads in nearby glens was certainly inconceivable.

I climb the trail after I bid the young man farewell and toil for an hour before finding a pleasant pitch. It's another sublime night but I wake to a morning where I can just catch the sound of heavy machinery wafting on the wind from Bendronaig as the road is cut further and work on the hydro continues on this Monday morn.

 Harsh and industrial those sounds certainly rob this place of something, even on a perfect summer's morning.

 But I'm bright and brisk after a good night and away at 0930 I catch the trail again to the falls of Glomach. It's easy walking on a lovely morning and I pass a pair who are obviously on the CWT.

Down to Carnach before the spectacle of the Falls of Glomach.

It's a fine walk this and the Falls provide real interest.

Eventually I top out and leave the trail behind. A-Glas Bhein is to be done tomorrow before I head down to the campsite at Morvich where I am to pick up a parcel containing more supplies. I follow the glen in the general direction of Loch A' Bhealach before I'm forced to pitch early by increasing rain.

The Munro the next day is fairly straightforward and by lunchtime I pick up the CWT again before heading towards Morvich. I'd been here only some weeks before when I'd meet James, Geoff and Chrissie. It seemed like a sensible place to break this journey and to head out with a lighter pack rather than the weight of a twelve day load. I'm proved right. Whilst it felt a bit like stepping into suburban England for just under twenty four hours it's a pleasant place to recharge the batteries and to chat to fellow hill goers. With reasonably priced wifi I dip back into the world. Campaigning for the General Election 2017 continues and its hard to feel a sense of connection to the world outside of Kintail and hill going. But I'm happy, I sup beer and listen to Radio 4, two of my preferred past-times.

I can't fault the campsite at Morvich, reasonably priced and with good facilities. The staff are friendly too and I leave the next day feeling much fresher than when I arrived.

It's another stunning day and I'm in for a treat. On a bright, clear and pleasant day I ascend to the Bheinn Fhada on the path from Morvich. There is a real alpine feel to it and certainly it's one of the most enjoyable ascents of a Munro there is. And as I stand on the summit Glen Affric is in front of me, the place that's going to occupy me for the next few days.

 There's a few folk out today too and in proper Scottish hill-goer style we stop and chat, expressing amazement at the sheer brilliance of the day. One walker is agog stating its the best day he has had in twenty years. And as you sit on the summit and watch butterflies dance and weave its hard not to agree.

Its difficult to leave as I realise I've been sat down for over an hour. From the summit I can see as far north as the Torridon, the Shiel ridges feel like they are in touching distances too.

I stretch stiffening limbs and begin to consider my next move. I've ample time and that thought, just under six full days stretching out in front of me, renders my resulting pace as languid in the summer heat.

Tonight is spent high. Coire Thuile Sgailceich offers several good pitches and by four I've ambled down to a perfect spot.

Forewarned by the forecast I'm aware that the next day is one of rain. The first real dreich day of this trip. So I stay off the clouding tops and head down to Glen Affric to have a look around, particularly at a couple of buildings I've wanted to visit for a while.

First visit of the day is to Camban. By twelve I'm opening its door and in I go. It's a sound and usefully proportioned bothy. It's easy to understand its popularity and that is underlined as I sit and make tea. First a young woman comes in whose on a multi-day mountain biking event. When she goes I'm joined by a couple of runners who are heading to Morvich. This place is certainly busy.

Glancing at the visitors book confirms that. Entries, multiple on single days, underscore what a popular place this is. The newly constituted Kintail/Affric way draws people in from all over the world. The book is peppered with cheerful messages from foreign walkers remarking about midges and rain.

Perhaps a consequence of the bothies popularity, and an unwelcome one, is its grubbiness. Litter is casually discarded in the corners though the worst spectacle is the rubbish dumped outside ranging from frying pans to a baby's nappy.

There's another place to visit now. Heading down the glen to Altbeithe I'm minded to call in for a look. Its the closest in the UK, with perhaps Blacksail too, to a Scandinavian hut and I'm very curious about it after passing on previous wanders. As I close in it begins to rain, the sight of smoke pouring from its chimney and a poster pinned to a window offering tea and coffee is hard to ignore.

In I go and I'm very glad I did. One of the wardens welcomes me into the kitchen and offers me some lunch. I gladly accept and we fall into a very easy conversation for over an hour. She's Danish and we discuss a broad range of subjects from Brexit to Trump. We are joined a little later by two cyclists and its a compelling place to be as rain spits against the window.

it is perhaps the difficult point of the day as I pick myself up, make my goodbyes and head out into the day's rain.

I pitch up near Affric on the cusp of a small hill which catches enough breeze to keep the midges away. It works and the rain too plays nicely and a pleasant evening is passed. Back to business in the morning and I'm up and away at the two Munros of the Glen Cannich forest.

They are easier enough and the good weather has returned.

By five I've hit my summits and found a very nice spot indeed to pitch. The only down side to the day is surveying on high the Glen Affric estate. As is confirmed over the next few days the owner is in a frenzy of construction. Several new roads snake out from the main building and head high into the hills in many directions.

The next day sees me move across the glen and to set myself up for the last big day. Sunday, my penultimate day, is about the five Munros of the Glen Affric forest. I head into a reasonable position to begin the assault the following day.

Up early and the day begins with Mullach Fraoch Coire.

Cooler of late but a good day as I take the circuit on in an anti-clockwise direction.

A day of high ridge walking, it's an enjoyable seven hours or so.

By five I've tumbled down into the glen and an fixing my last night's camp after a long but rewarding day.

Next morning I pack up and it's a walk out to Tomich where I enjoy the very reasonable café there before the bus to Inverness. The walk is spent dodging heavy machinery and reflecting upon the last twelve days. It's been a great walk, they always are. I can't help shaking the feeling of a pace of change in the Highlands which is perhaps getting out of hand. Hill roads and hydro have been the immediate despoliation on this walk and in the distance the horizon is framed by windfarms.

It's naïve to think it was never like this. Thompson's book tells of estates being held at the whim of their owners. He writes of an American millionaire who in the 1920s buys neighbouring Attadale. To preserve his deer solely for the benefit of his gun he builds huge fences around the estate and orders ghillies to herd and drive the deer onto his waiting weapon so he, and he alone, can enjoy the despatch.

I'm glad to reach Tomich and I fall upon food both there and in Inverness. Sadness too on learning of a bloody and visceral attack in a part of London which I know well. But be positive, its hard not to be after the pleasure of my time in the hills. A good long trip this one, properly of length to leave the world for a bit. Onto the next one soon enough, two weeks in Swedish Lapland to come. The long mountain walk never ends, it only experiences occasional hiatus. Forward!

I thought I'd seen the last of the snow for this year. An interesting five days in Knoydart and Kintail though ended with a final few hours walking into stinging snow. Bookend with some train chaos at Euston station which was shut by fire and it could have been memorable for the wrong reasons.

But every trip to Scotland is worth it and this one had some very sweet moments indeed. Commencing with the satisfaction of actually managing to make the sleeper at Watford Junction instead of Euston I set off in the direction of Gulvain on a dull Thursday morning after arriving at Fort William. The plan this trip was to try and sweep up four of my outlying Munros.

Ultimately only one was done as I was also squeezing two possible social engagements in. No concern really, those hills are going nowhere and I in any event welcome them as defining points in my stravaiging.

Tumbling down off Gulvain and then a wild camp in a lovely lonely glen saw off Thursday. Friday I headed to Strathan and then picked up the right of way into Knoydart via Glen Dessary. I'd been here before but that journey saw me hoover up the big hills some four years before.

This entrance into Knoydart though was lower but no less enjoyable, I'd cast my eye down into Dessary those four years before. For me it occupies the place where Hamish Brown in the first continuous round of the Munros hit his lowest ebb.

"By the top of pass the rain had come on hard. I was dripping with sweat inside my waterproof top and bottom, though still clad in my minimum. The atmosphere grew colder, but the physical effort of breaking around to the Mam na Cloich 'Airde path kept me warm. Not for the first time I now put my foot in a bog and drew it out black to the knee. I could not be wetter below knee level, anyway, so a walk to the next burn cleaned it.

The rough going slowed me down and I began, suddenly, to feel ridiculously cold. A brief clearance showed the hills ahead (which I was hoping to climb) plastered with snow well below the 2000 foot level. The route was complete. Their ascent would have been madness in the conditions, and my state had suddenly become serious: I had become very cold indeed. It was time to camp.

Finding a dryish bump on that blasted weather scoured col was not easy. Most of the ground was inches deep in water, at just the time I was in a hurry. I eventually chose a knoll where the underlying rock wasn't too close below the skin of the moss and lichen. Then I found that I'd left the tent pegs back in Oban."

Hamish gets the tent up and records in his dairy

"Storms blast through periodically. Tent a bit drafty and noisy of course. Very wearing. Toughest area of all with difficult lines of supply and communication and this November weather at its worst (Still cold in the sleeping bag yet last night sweating.) Heights barred by blizzards and valley driving rain and flooded wildly. Oh, it would be nice to pack in but I can't. Must hang on or even retreat and come again. It is so good when good, or even reasonable, but apart from the last three days its been awful for weeks. It is June, damn it. My shoulder tells the weather; the wet cold sets it gnawing away. Read a bit an early to kip. Morale low!"

My entry into Knoydart was certainly not as dramatic. The right of way, now the Cape Wrath Trail route, was a fairly easy and I enjoyed a striking descent to sea level. My camp was warm, peaceful and pleasant, a sea side pitch and nine hours uninterrupted sleep.

But hill trips can be hard, even for the legendary Hamish Brown on occasions, and if mine wasn't I bumped into Cape Wrath Trail walkers the next day who I think were slightly overwhelmed by it all even in the early stages of the trail.

They were struggling on the leg from Sourlies to Barrisdale, I was to see them the next day on the leg to Kinloch Hourne and they were in better spirits on an easier path. Perhaps though the weather that was to hit on Monday might have altered their plans somewhat.

I heeded a higher line to Barrisdale. There was the potential for a meet with Marc but that didn't come to pass. However, I was rewarded with another excellent sea level camp. I was revelling in the ease of camping in mild conditions on flat grassy pitches. Quite the contrast from Sweden only a month before.

I headed out of Knoydart along the Cape Wrath Trail route to Shiel Bridge. The last objective this trip was a meet with Chrissie, Geoff and James at Shiel for a lunch in their van before heading off to Fort William and the journey home.

A final twist in the tale. Sunday saw worsening weather but I was quite surprised with what Monday bought. I awoke to traces of snow in the morning and thought nothing of it, shrugging off wind and rain and feeling the weather was more normal. As I climbed to the col near the Saddle though rain turned to snow and I was literally battered all the way to Shiel.

At times the ferocity was remarkable. My eyes stung in the assault of hail and snow and I could only stare at the ground to spare myself from the worst as I edged my way forward. It was a relief to inch down and the worst diminished.

The remaining few hours though were enjoyable. It was great to meet the Crowthers and their dogs in the warmth, both literally and figuratively, of their van. Meeting James too, at long last, was very much an added bonus and I hope to see them all again before too much time has passed.

The genesis of this hugely successful eight day tour of Jamtland lay in two winter trips in the Cairngorms. In 2015 both myself and my sometime partner in crime Marc awoke one morning in Glen Feshie to a huge dump of snow. We struggled that day on the hills. We toiled through drifting snow and tumbled down to Glen Feshie that evening to the dubious welcome of ice cold tents. Next day, revived as the sun sparkled on fresh snow, we both began to talk about what would make a really successful winter trip.

Fast forward to winter 2016 and we trial the prototype Trekkertent 'Hot Tent' heated by my 'LiteOutdoors' stove. No snow this year though, perhaps humping a pair of 'Tubbs' snowshoes strapped to my bag around the Cairngorms ensured that. We do enjoy a cold but snow-free Feshie that December instead and the comfort of the hot tent makes a real difference. Sitting companionably and snug around the fire, whisky in hand, we talk about a snowshoe backpack around the Highlands. What a trip that could be but alas snow can't be guaranteed and perhaps in sufficient coverage to serve you a proper odyssey. The idea though is compelling and it stirs us both.

Back home for me the next day and within twenty four hours of stepping off the sleeper I'm clucking to get out ago and roam 'free-range' through a winter landscape. I've an advantage in beating the odds of a snow poor Highlands. The solution is obvious, head north to the sub-arctic and 100 per cent certainty. For me Sweden is as familiar as the Highlands and within hours I've  booked flights to/from Norway/Sweden which will see return to the classic Jamtlandsfjallen.

 Sweden is stuffed full of destinations to disappear into. The idea though of returning to Jamtlandsfjallen is strikingly obvious in order to pursue an inaugural snowshoeing trip. I'm deeply fond of the place, honing my backpacking skills well over a decade a go in the year that I lived in Sweden. A real wilderness feel but equally a developed trail network of huts and trails gives an ease to the place. Consequently, this 'back-up' made it an obvious place to take my young children backpacking and many of the same factors stand in a winter trip. You're in some big country but you can reach assistance within a few hours from most places. Adventure for sure but ready solutions if problems present themselves.

I wanted that assurance for my first foray out in deep cold. Make no mistake it is cold there in early March. The mean temperature is around -10 with overnight lows typically of - 20. Travelling in daytime is one thing but living out in that level of cold requires a careful approach. The right kit and importantly the right attitude. Do everything correctly and quickly. Whilst the chances of death in that level of cold are low with a degree of competence what I was guarded against were cold injuries. Damaging sensitive tissue, especially in the extremities, is a real possibility.

The real weapon in my arsenal was the hot tent. Using it with Marc in December and then on my own backpacking the Southern Uplands over five days in the New Year really got me used to it. Marc, as ever, is constantly thinking of improvements and advancing the design. The key change for Jamtland were some snow valances to really get the tent bedded into the snow. As ever Marc did a remarkable job.

Camping and living in -20 though needed some adjustment to my normal practices and I was to give this careful thought over the winter months at home. Most of my normal kit could be expected to work well though some changes are certainly required. Not least the need for caution when living in a hot tent and the flamibility of synthetic materials. Certain key bits of equipment would need to be purchased, an emphasis on traditional materials such as wool and leather which would handle fire better. An approach needed too to keep them functioning. Whilst the weather could be relied upon to be dry I'd experienced in Scotland on many occasions the problems of kit getting wet and freezing solid overnight.

With these issues in mind I spent the intervening months planning and thinking about my kit and clothing. The right clothes an imperative, those that would make the exertion of hauling a pulk through snowfields comfortable but equally would protect me when the temperatures plummeted. Equipment too to cut and prep firewood, keeping the heart and hearth of my little winter expedition ticking over. The correct footwear that would keep my feet warm and dry in deep cold. Protection too from the searing and sapping frozen temperatures of the snow banks that I would pitch and then sit and lie upon. Tools too for digging snow and holding guy lines taught. And of course, the correct means of transporting all that heavy equipment around 100 kms plus of wilderness over many days.

I'll say a little more about kit and equipment in a separate post. I was confident though when I arrived in Trondheim at the beginning of March that I had the best equipment possible. Perhaps even a little too much I thought as I manhandled a 70 litre Mountain Equipment Cargo bag, a 40 litre Granite Gear Backpack and a pulk wrapped carefully in rubble bags through the late night streets of pretty Trondheim. After a comfortable but brief night in Norway I was over the border next morning on the relatively short journey to the Swedish border town of Storlien.

The trip plan was fairly straightforward and on ground that I knew well. Standing outside the STF hostel at Storvallen I was to follow familiar routes all the way to Valadalen and my return journey home in a week's time. The medium of travel was different this time though. Strapping on the snowshoes and then harnessing myself to the pulk I was concerned that I was going to find this strange means of journeying through my beloved Swedish mountains overwhelmingly difficult. I had no grounds for worry. Within metres of setting off I found that using snowshoes was intuitive and that the pulk mostly followed obediently behind (save for the downhill sections when it would eagerly shoot off as an advance party to my descent). Consequently, within minutes I began to seriously enjoy myself and I was full of optimism that Saturday morning, not least as the forecast for the coming days promised much sunshine. Following the red crosses marking the winter trail I felt the usual relief of at last being under way. No more need to worry about connections and hauling cumbersome equipment which could be lost, stolen or forgotten. I was at last under way and moving well with all I needed to survive, and indeed to live well, following behind me.

My mood was further improved by the prospect of a leisurely 10 km that day as I headed south. As I moved away from the hamlet of Storvallen I left behind buzzing snowmobiles and instead enjoyed the quiet of the trail as I meandered through deep forest blanketed in deep snow. A few people on the trail, mostly Norwegians who had journeyed with me from Trondheim for a day's skiing but as I progressed I had this intensely striking winter landscape to myself.

And then to the crux of the day. The prospect of pitching the system that had worked so well in a frosty Southern Uplands, the difference though use in this landscape moulded and formed by deep snow. Around 3 pm I decide to start looking for my pitch. Sunday night was a room booked in the high mountain station of Blahammeren but Saturday night was determinedly one for camping. I'd figured on a spot sited well in the tree line to provide both shelter from the wind and also copious firewood for the stove.

Camping on metres deep snow was certainly one of the most interesting aspects of the trip. I quickly learnt that Saturday night that plenty of time was needed to get the tent up and taught. Snow is a medium to work with and with a temperature of - 15 that day at least I had the freezing action of the intense cold to work with. First, flatten the pitch with the snowshoes. Then give it some time to freeze whilst engaging in some concurrent activity. Gathering and sawing firewood was certainly one way to keep occupied until it was time to move onto the next stage. Then comes the most difficult bit that first night. Getting secure pegging points certainly took some time. Using a mix of MSR Snow Anchors and, sawn tree branches and my snowshoes was the most effective. Cheap Chinese rip offs of MSR Snow Pegs were certainly not.

After about three hours of starting the tent was finally up and organised the way I wanted it. As dusk came at about 6.30 pm the fire was lit just in time to greet falling temperatures. I soon found myself in a sanctuary bathed in a temperature of plus 25 degrees c. A minor miracle I thought as I embarked on an evening routine which gradually saw me feed and watered. Another aspect of winter camping to be overcome, tne complication caused by the time of year is the total absence of running water. To counter this I had bought a basic Trangia aluminium pot and using the top of my wood burner I was able to melt plenty over the course of the evening.

I sleep well that first night despite waking twice to find that I had fallen off my Thermarest and was lying on a block of ice. The hardest part of that first night's camp was certainly the moment I had to break out of my sleeping bag and out into the frozen air. Clothes and boots on I was able to start brewing up using the water that I had carefully stored in thermoses over night. The prospect of ready caffeine and warming food made the enterprise considerably easier and I'm grateful for my foresight.

What I learn that winter week is just how much more time is needed to accomplish tasks in deep cold. Dexterity is limited on gloves, take them off though to hasten the task and you risk the rapid onset of numbness or indeed pain. Breaking camp took around three hours from getting up. I'd certainly reckoned on that but I felt the labour of it. Getting away that Sunday morning was welcome and by about 11 am I was heading on the ascent out of the forest and up into the mountains.

Overnight the wind had picked up and the air was raw. Exposing an un-gloved hand to the air resulted in almost instant pain and I was guarded against the possibility of losing dexterity during the course of the trip. That wind was to continue for several days and the combination of the temperature and the wind speed served up temperatures hitting - 30 and below.

Another key factor of the trip became apparent that second day. 'Ascent days' were considerably more difficult than travelling on flat or descent. I became acutely aware that I was hauling around 25 kgs up hill and that this was to continue for several hours until I reached Blahammeren. The weather was fierce too now, bright but punishingly cold. Goggles on today and almost no skin exposed as I fought into the wind. An opportunity to rest at the shelter some kilometres before reaching the mountain station itself provided some respite before I struggled on.

Arriving at Blahammen that night was wonderfully surreal. I'd stayed with my family some years before and was familiar with this high station sited at around 1300 meters. Winter though is markedly different. The pulk harnessed to the exterior of the building I pass through three different hallways which seal off the warm interior from the scourge of the wind outside. Having finally shedded several layers of clothes I'm politely greeted by the receptionist clad in a t-shirt and jeans and handed the key to my own room. A shower, some food and then I flop on my bed in the warmth of that refuge. Sleep comes very easily that night as I listen to the wind howl outside my window.

Next morning and another bright day but no respite in the wind. After a welcome breakfast I reverse the divestment of the night before and head out onto the bitter cold. Snow streams in the constant wind. Goggles immediately on and hood pulled tight over my head I fight to secure my tarp around the pulk, protecting the load from spindrift.

The scene was incredible that morning. The interplay of snow, sun and wind struck not only me. As I prepared to head down towards Storulvan skiers around me shrieked with joy as they headed onto the trail. What a morning, vital simply.

As I've remarked the travelling was obviously at it's most difficult ascending. Descent, clearly proved much less effortful. I make quick progress that day and the wind was easy to ignore amidst sparkling sun on snow. I ease myself downward with plans for another camp back in the treeline.

Heading down out of the mountains and into the forest around Storulvan conditions improve. Camp is reached by around 3 pm that day and again it takes some time to prepare. By around 6 pm all is set and I've commenced my evening routine. Camp certainly offered a whole new dimension to that trip. Others were around on the trails during the day despite the early nature of the season. I, however, was certainly the only person that I met who made the wilderness their home at night. The depth of silence was remarkable during the dark hours when the wind had dropped. That night I sit listening to the crack of the fire that night just struck by my situation. There, in a light forest of birch blanketed in snow, cocooned in heat, lay simple respite and contentment.

Over the next day and a half I progress slowly up to the mountain hut at Gasen. I made use of the river way past Tjallingen which frozen solid offered a wilderness freeway. I mused on the expression of northern peoples that winter is a time for travel. Indeed, in some ways movement over the course of this winter trip was easier than its summer equivalent. Gone were the wet marshes of the bare months. Frozen solid and to be forgotten about until June. For now all directions offered possibility and I relished it.

I was blessed again with bright sunshine and intense blue sky. The wind was less fierce as I edged my way north.

I'd certainly enjoyed the previous night's camping. Though I'd slept fairly well that night, when I reached the wind shelter that serves to prepare those undertaking the long ascent to the mountain huts at Gasen, I easily gave in to its bare comforts and prepared to spend the night there. Normally these identikit shelters that lie hidden in the vastness of the Swedish wilderness are charmless. This one though was brand new and with some firewood prepared I soon get the stove going and the temperature crept up to around plus 10 (whence it remained until I left the next morning).

Returning to Gasen though was certainly a highlight of the trip. I'd last passed that way a decade before and I love its situation. Stirring that next morning and packing away my kit in the relative warmth of the wind shelter I focused on my arrival rather than the drudgery of hauling the pulk to 1500 meters.

The pulk secured I begin to climb out of the forests of mountain birch and up onto the heights of the fell. On a cloudier morning of late the journey is to take several hours.

The ascent though bought its own delight. The opening up of the land and the tang of height. By midday I've arrived and after introducing myself to the hut warden I dump my baggage and quickly head to the summit of Gasen itself, joyfully unencumbered.

Topping out on that 1600 metre hill the whole of southern Jamtland is before me as the cloud lifts and the areas box office peaks are revealed. Helags one side, Sylarna to the other, and both with their glaciers now totally indistinguishable.

A moment of completeness for sure. Warmth and shelter below me, and in front rock, snow and ice stretching endlessly.

As I leave Gasen next day to descend to Stensdalen I reflect on the trip and what future ones might bring. So far (and it remained so) hugely successful and surpassing my expectations. My kit and equipment worked well and with some fine tuning I could certainly take even less on the next time. I'm becoming adept at living in deep cold and with the honing of certain skills and drills I could sustain myself out for longer.

Perhaps the prospect of mastering Nordic skiing too, something which I've subsequently learned that the Army will teach me and indeed will pay me for the privilege of learning. But for now I'm impressed by what a decent pair of snow shoes and a pulk can achieve.

So why not then a longer winter trip next March? Undertaking the Kungsleden in the quietness of March appeals. The whole length of it from Hemavan north with the prospect of Summer's crowds greatly reduced as I cross its great lakes with indifference. This trip has opened up new possibilities in my boreal stravaiging.

Stensdalen that night and its shiny new hut there. I'd passed this way again a decade before but the brand new structure that I'm to stay in tonight has arisen from the ashes of the hut that I'd passed by before. A year after my visit someone negligently leaves a camping stove, on, against the building and the hut burns to a cinder.

I'm a little regretful about spending a night indoors as the conditions are perfect. The sauna that I enjoy at six that evening banishes that. For the first time in six days I feel really clean as I sit and sweat out the grime before being doused in ice cold water. Totally clean, total invigoration.

My last night on the trail is spent in the forest of Valadalen. The dropping of the wind over the later half of the week makes camp life much more bearable. The abundance of pine wood too in the forest gives real heat to the stove and I'm to spend a very comfortable night.

With a more practised hand now the tent goes up fairly quickly. Wood is prepped and within a while snow is melting on the stove for a welcome brew.

I throw the chair up too tonight and as I drink tea and eat biscuits the situation is absurdly luxurious. With enough wood prepared I sit up long into the night by the warmth of my fire before reluctantly crawling into bed just before midnight.

The next morning sees me complete the last few miles on the trail and I arrive at Valadalen where I exit the trail head and make my way to Ostersund before the flight back to the UK for the following day. In the warmth of an early spring day now I'm quietly delighted by the success of the trip and the prospect of more to come.

I'll give my thoughts on kit and equipment in a second post, as well as some of the logistics of this particular trip. I'm indebted though to the assistance of several people for the provision of vital gear. Marc of Trekkertent for his fab hot tent. Heather of Pacerpole for her fantastic new flicklock poles. And Jilly too who volunteered her pulk to me, I think we've established a useful relationship in lending each other useful bits of expeditionary kit!

Back to bashas and harbours for some of June but before I knew it I was in the Cairngorms to finish off Lochnagar’s fine satellite hills and the dismal Cairnwell. Marc and I camped in the splendour of Glen Lui and we drank long into the night amidst a gloaming (of sorts) in early July. With somewhat of a hangover next day I made the first unsuccessful attempt to find ‘The Secret Howff’.

Catching the boat to the Russian town of Barentsburg I emerged onto the remote Nordenskiold coast after a couple of hard days. This huge flat coastline runs thirty miles deep on the west side of Spitzbergen. In appalling weather, wet and cold, I found the shelter of an old trapper's hut.

No palace for sure, that hut had seen better days. Either a fox or a beer had smashed its way inside and wreaked havoc. Within thirty minutes I had rendered it habitable. Perhaps more importantly, I made it secure by barricading the smashed windows. I was protected from marauding polar bears. No fancy on my part, this is Svalbard and the threat of bears is real. I slept well that night as drizzle and clag gave way to clear weather. I awoke to a sparkling day.
 
The next eight days saw me walk back to Longyearbyen including one night in Russian Barentsburg. It was another fascinating but tough walk on that high Arctic Archipelago. Fascinating, as I dipped into Svalbard’s human history again with stays in abandoned trapper’s stations and the exploration of abandoned Russian mines. Tough, because carrying an expedition pack with bear warning fence and weapon tacked on demands effort.

​Leaving Longyearbyen at the end of that trip was hard. The midnight sun was high in the sky as my plane left around 1 am as  I flew south to Oslo. 

I may give Svalbard a break next year but I’ll be back sometime. It’s raw beauty, fauna and history have left its  mark. It’s a frontier for self-guided travel still. A high level of skill and resource is required and I relish its challenge. Its serenity though is balm for the soul. The sound of the Barents sea, raucous sea birds, wild reindeer gently grazing on high tundra, perfectly preserved trapper’s stations and hytta will always remain with me.

I was abroad again but not before another return to the Cairngorms. On a midgey August Bank Holiday weekend I explored the eastern depths of the park and found some far flung reaches of my favourite hills. Around the central plateau fold were busy but leave the likes of Macdui, Cairngorm, Etchachan and Loch Avon and you'll find gorious solitude even on a Bank Holiday weekend. Dubh An'Lochan was simply a superb camp on my last night. The following day I proceded to fail to find again 'the Secret Howff'.

That Cairngorm walk was sticky and buggy. Only a few weeks later though I crossed into the 'Borderlands' of Granslandet as summer slipped into Autumn.

Perhaps my favourite trip of the year, I spent ten days on a return to Rogen. I'd passed this way on my Grona Bandet and had always wanted to return. The 'Borderlands' are a incredibly place, ones for the true connoisseur of wild places. A mix of old forest, fells and vast lakes. Little walked and serenly quiet.

The weathe played up to the theme of liminality. Late summer slipped through to autumn. The birch blazed and the setting was, literally, golden.

I certainly rediscovered my passion for the Swedish wilds that trip. It really felt like coming home.

Though the warmth of the season perhaps didn't merit it, a chance too to play with my LiteOutdoors stove, a wonder being able to lug around a tent or tarp heating system.

At another crossing of the seasons I returned to the Highlands. Glen Nevis hosted me for four days as I mopped up more Munros. Cold but substantially dry the walking was good. Short daylight hours were felt, more time in the tent with a brew on or asleep than stravaiging.

Some great hill though, no better than finally ascending Ben Nevis via the iconic CMD.

From the solitude of four days alone in the glen the sudden folk circus on the hill itself was almost ludicrous.

Not quite the last trip of the year but early December found me back in the Cairngorms. With big dump off snow only ten days before I'd planned a snowshoe of my favourite hills. But this is Scotland and the weather never plays ball. Ranging from downright warm to hard frost and light snow, the snow shoes stayed on the pack.

What was succesful was the first use of the Trekkertent hot tent. Marc met me at a favoured camp in Feshie and we enjoyed am absurdly comfy evening in the glen.

The turn of the year should see me out in the Scottish Borders, I'll be out with the hot tent and trying to perfect my use of it as a system. I'm intrigued by being out in winter and having to adapt gear and technique to meet the challenge. March sees me back to my beloved Jamtland for some cold camping and snowshoing. 

A quick five days in the Highlands saw a variety of experiences and a chance to test some new gear. Alas the deep snows of only a week ago were thawing fast in mild temperatures as I crossed the Cairngorms. Moments on the second day of unseasonal balmy weather  and even warm sun as I cross the park.

Much more like early autumn, probably even bettering some summer days, I rounded the base of the Devil's Point sweating under a winter load which included snow shoes and a sleeping system designed to withstand the preceding week's temperatures of minus twelve.

Winter though returned only a few hours later. Not least awakening on the Mhoine Mhor on day three to light snow and freexing winds.

However, down in wooded glens the Trekkertent Hot Tent made a triumphant debut. I meet Marc and we defy an outside of minus 6 as my stove pumps out enough heat to have the thermometer hitting 25 degrees c, incredible stuff.

I intend to be back up to Scotland soon. Marc and I have been bitten by the winter camping bug. I've a trip to Sweden in March, I want to push my backpacking into the deep cold, so fingers crossed that Scotland delivers a chance to test my set up before I head north.

In many ways just another routine Highlands trip. Four days on the hill, the expedient Caledonian Sleeper justifiable again thanks to my HM Forces Railcard (a perk of Reserve Service). Up on Thursday night and down on Monday with London reached on Tuesday morning as the Capital teams with it's workers.

A chance though to mop up odd Munros which have always been left on previous trips. I'm not far off Compleation but I'm left with some stragglers scattered over the Highlands. Many ditched on a round undertaken in foul weather. It's a logistical problem to solve picking them off in the main.

Glen Nevis, however, allows at least a single trip to knock a few off. The most notable being Ben Nevis and its satellite CMD. Six years ago I ran out of time on an attempt at Tranters Round and I'm keen to grab them.

Season wise it still feels like autumn but there's tell tale light snow on the hills as I arrive at Tulloch. A keen northerly wind too reminds me that winter is on the way. To that end, perhaps over cautiously I've packed the ice axe and some light spikes. Another nod to the time of year is my Rondane Superlight. With darkness dominating its good to have the extra living space for the extended time I'm tent bound.

Friday sees me knock off Stob a Choire Mheadhoin and Easain. Straightforward enough but I find myself caught in a snow storm on the summits. Descent on fresh snow to Lairig Leachach sees my on my backside four times. Fresh snow on greasy peat, but a least the landing is soft. As I arrive in the glen I'm in a race against the setting sun to get the tent up in daylight. A bitter wind has me in my tent quickly.

The night though is a comfortable one and Saturday is bright as I head down into Glen Nevis, autumn still dominant in its colours and hues and the odd trees I encounter still hold leaves. October was warm and bright and you can feel it still. 

But at height you can tell winter is on its way and this landscape will be locked down soon enough in winter monochrome. I ascend to grab another remnant, Binnein Beag.

It's a great spot to survey the glen and of course the impressive surrounds of the Mamores and the Grey Corries. One of the greatest trips in the Highlands is a round of these hills.

A lochan is usefully situated between Binnein Bheag and Mor with some good pitches. That's Saturday night's harbour and I bed down for fourteen hours or so. I'm happy enough with some wine and a few podcasts on the phone to enjoy. The wind builds during the night and snow skittles the fly sheet. I wake to a cover of light snow.

I don't feel like much today, simply to move myself into position for the main event so I descend into the glen.

Light plays across the hill. I'm impressed by this end of the glen with its few trees and I admire the position of Steall Hut as I head on the path up towards the plain that lies underneath the bealach between Aonach Beag and Carn Mor Dearg.

I'm keen to try and get a relatively early start. I'm lucky with Monday dawning clear and calm. I'm away a little after nine.

I'll admit some nervousness as I climb towards the summit and the CMD arrete. Here it's icy and I'm concerned about conditions on the arrete itself. However, the weather is sublime. Bright and clear with fresh snow. The wind whips spindrift of the arrete itself and it is wonderfully atmospheric.

Hugely impressive, simply. The arete provides an interesting walk and I make fairly quick progress. A couple of people ahead but it's wonderfully quiet.

Most of the southern and central Highlands are on show and it's pure theatre ascending Ben Nevis this way.

These are the days that you so this for and the CMD is a hill walkers treat.

Quite the contrast to the solitary pleasure of the ascent the summit teams with people and I'm almost taken aback. Its my first time up here but the Ben is a little like summiting Snowdon with its broad range of people and kit on display.

Impressive though are its buildings nicely rimmed up. Like adornments on a walkers wedding cake.

I follow a line of walkers off the hill and down the mountain. A rather dull couple of hours but it gets me to the Fort quickly enough. A few beers, some food and I'm ready for my bed as I board the Sleeper a little before eight.

A good trip, certainly. I'm keeping touch with the Highland's seasonal changes. Next time, not so many weeks away, winter will bite harder. Time to think about making myself comfortable in five days of that.

Some trips make you realize why you do this. That  combination of superlative landscape and weather that just caresses you. Memories of previous days of wind and rain or the assault of biting insects melt away. There's a flow to the journey and this was one such occasion.

I'm glad to say that since publishing Part 1 of my summary of this early autumn walk in the Borderlands I've had the go ahead to 'pen' a feature for TGO which will appear sometime in 2017. What I like about writing for a magazine is the pressure to step up in terms of writing but also the opportunity to explore themes. All to be a packaged in about 2, 500 words and subject to the expert eye of an editor.

​My blog though is a little more personal. A scapbook really where I have a chance to develop some thoughts, some sketching for a wider article or perhaps test a notion or two.

And the blog gives an opportunity for celebration and this walk certainly deserves it. Ten glorious days in Granslandet and in weather which was impeccable.  I had no doubt of that as I awoke on another bright Monday morning and dropped down off the heights of Tandsjovalen with the goal of reaching the STF hut at Storrodtjarnstugan. 

Until I leave Storrodstjarnstugan my route essentially mirrors my Grona Bandet. The point of this walk though was to explore in greater depth Rogen and its Norwegian counterpart Femundsmarka. I had a couple of options to cross into Femund. Perhaps the easiest option would have been to follow the trail network from Storrodstjarnstugan and follow it it Norway. This would have taken me away from Rogen itself for this trip and I wasn't sure that I was ready to leave.

From my vantage points above Lake Rogen I spied a cross country route on the southern shores of Rogen. The fells looks clear and with enough gaps in the forestry. I'm confident that I can make quick passage and hit the Norwegian trail network without too much fuss.

In reality things are much more difficult. The area is covered in moraine and I take almost three days to cover a relatively short space of around 30 km. That said though the forest scape is astonishing. Mosses carpet the forest floors and pines of all shapes, ages and sizes provide an enchanting places to sweat and toil.

I also see no other human life for almost four days. I leave the STF hut at Storrodstjarn after a pleasant chat with the hut warden (and buying some more gas) and see no one else for some four days until a young dutch man and myself meet in Femund.

I can't pretend that this section of the walk was easy, but it was certainly remarkable in itself.

A deep forest of ancient pines, studded with the work of ancient glaciers and fringed by huge lakes on other side.

The walking days are hard but two memorable camps, not least on just above the shores of Lake Rogen. A hard days walk, a bracing dip and then ten hours sleep.

And its utterly tranquil. Nothing more than the sound of water lapping on rock and wind in pine. A true pause in life.

The Norwegian border lies at the eastern end of Rogen. I'm to leave Sweden by climbing high, scanning for two border cairns which are marked as near the summit of a low fell.

My eye catches sight of the familiar cairns. Like their scores of counterparts I've met on this borderline which cuts hundreds of miles through this wilderness they stand in splendid isolation, marking the boundary between the two kingdoms.

I've crossed like this between the two dozens of times but there's still a slight thrill. A subversion really of what a border should feel like. A notion of a place where control is exerted by fences and guards and administration required.

Here, the suggestion of a frontier only. This border space marked further by a line cut through the miles of forestry on other side but there's little at present to discern the two nations.

I feel more definitely in Norway when I tumble off the hill and onto the Norwegian trail network. The familiar red trail blazes a welcome sight.

I've left Rogen behind and I'm now in Femund. The first of Femund's famous bua or bothies lies not too far from my meeting of the trail. This ancient forest is dotted with open huts, testament to old forestry operations and a national spirit which sees the preservation and openness of wilderness shelters as an imperative.

Despite the regular trail blazes a lapse in concentration. After a while I realise I'm off the marked trail and on one of the irregular paths which dot the forests. I need my compass to correct my direction and after a small struggle I head up onto open fell. Before me the bulk of Storsvuka, capped in mist.

Perhaps the worst weather of the trip as I erect the tent in light rain. But I'm fed and snug by the time darkness falls, no hardship here.

As I pack up the next morning the monochrome of the sky seems to only enhance the blaze of autumn colour. A slight forest of birch, dotting the hill side and leaves swirling in the breeze. A melancholic sight but achingly beautiful.

Today I'm heading to the DNT hut at Rovallen. It's self service so with my trusty key I will be able to access the warmth and comfort of the Norwegian hut system. Importantly too is the ability to eat and restock a little from the honesty cupboard.

After an hour of setting off I see a figure amble towards me. My first meeting in three days. He's not seen anyone else for two and we remark upon the tranquilty of these mountains. What a place!

 But despite the solitude apparently I'm walking on the cross Europe E1! From Nordcapp to southern Italy it ranges. My journey is far more modest today and by 5 pm I'm unlocking Rovallen.

The hut is quiet and clean. I get the fire going and in half an hour its deliciously warm too. The cupboard is well stocked and I settle on pasta and reindeer meatballs for my evening meal. I eat incredibly well ...

As I leave Rovallen the following morning I've a sense of the ending of this walk. I'm heading to Ljosnavollen today but the need to hit Roros and make my connecting flight to Oslo in around 48 hours begins to press heavy.

It's another morning of forest and the added complication of mires.

But by lunchtime I'm in the orbit of Skedbro and a stunning landscape of rocks and pines emerges.

And head the loft heights of the giant of the Borderlands, Storvigelen. I climbed this beast 13 years ago and one of its tarns, Bolagen, has provided a memorable camp.

There are a few bua around here. One catches my attention but I see a figure moving around it. It's Saturday and there are folk around now.

In any event camp is a joy that night, up with the stove and I enjoy the warmth of my fire as darkness descends. It's good though to know there are accommodation options in this national park. I explore one such hut the following day. A former forestry camp the Norwegian State Forestry Company keep this one in great condition.

Too soon I find myself pitching camp for the last time this trip. The weather's cooler than a week ago but it's been remarkably dry. I hit Roros as intended some ten days after starting out and before too long I'm back in Southern England.

A remarkable trip in a special place and one which I'll reflect upon further in time. Granslandet or the 'Borderlands' is a unique place and one I would urge any one passionate about northern wilderness to visit.