The view was incredible; snow-covered mountains as far as the eye could see, lit only by a haloed full moon with not a man-made light in sight. This felt like true wilderness. It was 1am and the temperature was well below freezing. I was staring across the high plateau of the Cairngorms National Park in Scotland, having just crawled out of my cosy sleeping bag – which was now calling me invitingly back to the little shelter dug in the snowbank behind me.
Perhaps surprisingly for someone who has been a professional photographer for almost forty years, I didn’t want to take any photos. I simply wanted to take in the experience, concentrating on what was around me and how I was feeling: the view, the cold and the exhaustion. I didn’t need a photograph to remember it all. Besides, I knew that going back inside the snow hole to fetch my camera would break this beautiful moment and disturb the memory.
Spending a night in a snow hole that had just taken me six hours to dig wasn’t the original plan. I’d moved to Scotland about twelve months previously and just wanted to have a go at walking in snowshoes. I phoned around several outdoor activity centres, but no one did it. I was told the snow wasn’t right for it in Scotland – not deep enough or firm enough or something. But one person I contacted, Andy at Scot Mountain Holidays said: “Well, I can’t teach you snowshoeing but how about having a go at snow holing”? It didn’t take me long to say yes.
A couple of months later I met Wayne and Stephen who would join me on the adventure. We were quickly informed that before undertaking a night in a snow hole we had to have training, just in case. Not so much in snow holing skills per se – that’s just digging and cutting, albeit pretty hard work – but in winter mountain safety. Our first venture onto Cairn Gorm mountain itself was therefore to learn what to do if we slipped or fell. We had all previously been kitted out with stiff-soled, four-season walking boots, crampons and an ice axe.
Setting off into the winter hills, we were all enthusiastic to learn. I had never used crampons before and to be honest had only a small amount of experience of walking in serious winter conditions. At first, the going was easy as we climbed the increasingly snow-covered path. After an hour however, the situation had changed completely. Trudging through deep snow, high on the mountain with the wind gusting 70mph, it was a struggle to stay upright. We sank into the foot-deep snow at every step. I confess this was outside my comfort zone, but leader Andy quite literally took it all in his stride. “There’s a valley down below us that has ideal conditions for what we need,” he shouted at us through the deafening wind. “Just as well,” I thought. I didn’t fancy carrying on upwards in these conditions.
The valley was well sheltered and had the ideal slope for sliding down, to practice ice axe arrests. We stopped to eat our lunch, pulling on an extra layer for warmth. “Every time we stop, it’s vital that you put on an extra layer,” Andy instructed us. “You will get cold very quickly if you don’t”. Andy is a lovely friendly guy, but this instruction was delivered like a drill sergeant. It mattered.
We spent the afternoon practicing various techniques to stop ourselves should we be unlucky enough to fall. It’s all a matter of how to hold the axe and where to dig the pick into the snow, depending on which way you are facing when you fall. In all cases, this means twisting your body to get into the best position to arrest the slide. To be honest it was great fun sliding down the mountain, playing like a child in the snow – but it obviously had a serious element as well. That serious side was something I was going to discover two days later.
Walking back to the car and chatting to Andy, I soon realised that this day had been about more than just teaching us safety techniques. Andy had also used it as a way of assessing us and seeing how fit the group was. We obviously passed the test, as that evening over dinner we discussed plans for the next day and the snow hole trip itself.
The next morning, along with the usual kit for camping overnight, we packed snow shovels and a couple of ice saws into our rucksacks before setting off from the bottom of the Cairngorm Funicular Railway. The snowpack deepened as we climbed, the path gradually disappearing with each step and spindrift covering our steps. At one point a ptarmigan was sitting motionless only twenty feet from us, but it was so well camouflaged by its white winter plumage that it took several minutes to focus through the whiteness in order to separate it from the landscape.
Thankfully the wind had dropped to a manageable 20mph overnight, with only intermittent snow showers. The sun illuminated the green landscape below us when patches of blue sky managed to show between the clouds. After a couple of hours walking, we reached the Cairn Gorm plateau and left behind the cluttered landscape of ski lifts and ploughed slopes. The wind dropped and the clouds lifted to leave us with clear skies and an amazing view of snow-covered hills as far as we could see, with the frozen waters of Loch Avon way below us.
We walked on, working hard as we pushed ourselves forward, and thinking how fortunate we were to experience such beauty, only accessible in wilderness like this.
Sometime later we found a large, exposed area of rock, a perfect place for lunch. While we ate, Andy set off up the hillside with an avalanche pole to probe the snow slope and seek out the best place for us to dig our shelter.
Revived after the food and hot drink, we set about digging a snow hole for four. It was mid-afternoon. Little did I know how long it would take us to excavate our shelter. Standing about 10ft apart, we worked in pairs digging into the slope, initially with shovels but eventually using the saws to cut out blocks of ice which we stacked at the entrance to create a wind break. This was hard work and very slow. The 18-inch square ice blocks were so heavy that it took two people to lift each one. Once we’d excavated about ten feet into the hillside we started to dig towards each other, experiencing a great sense of relief when we eventually broke through and met. A short time later, we had dug a U-shaped tunnel about 5ft high and 3ft wide. Andy rounded off the ceiling to prevent drips overnight and we blocked off one of the entrances. We had a snow hole at last and a welcome place to spend the night.
The whole exercise had taken us almost six hours in total, far longer than normal, I was told. These were not ideal conditions for snow holing, with less snow than usual for this time of year and the only site available being a shallow slope. This meant we had to tunnel into the hillside further than usual, for safety and depth. Although it’s worth pointing out that had this been an emergency shelter rather than a ‘luxury’ snow hole, it would have taken far less time, as the design would have been a lot simpler and smaller.
It was great to finally move inside out of the weather and make the place home. An ice axe spiked into the wall made a convenient coat hook, candles placed in tiny alcoves cut into the walls gave a warm glow and Andy handed us all a cup of steaming hot tea within minutes. Dinner was a three-course affair. Well, I did say it was a luxury snow hole!
There was just enough room for the four of us to lay down. I put on every piece of clothing I had with me except for my waterproof jacket and snuggled down into my sleeping bag, pulling the hood close around my head, leaving just my nose protruding. I had a remarkably good night’s sleep, probably due to exhaustion from the day’s activities. It was nowhere near as cold as I had expected, with the temperature hovering around zero in the snow hole all night. However, it was considerably colder outside, especially once you factored in the wind chill.
Breakfast was steaming hot porridge with a nip of 12-year-old Scotch single malt. Outside it was a dull grey, windy morning as we set off for the summit of Cairn Gorm. By the time we had reached the top it was a total whiteout. How Andy had navigated us here without the use of map or compass was beyond me – he obviously knew the mountain very well. “Put on your crampons and stay close to the rocks,” he said. “We’ll descend via the western ridge. But be careful – there’s a very steep drop on one side”.
We set off in damp cloud with visibility down to about 10ft. Gradually the cloud lifted, and the steep drop became only too obvious. I stopped to take a few quick photos and broke one of my own golden rules: ‘never move with the camera at your eye, even one step, when taking photos in a risky situation’. Without warning, I slipped and pitched forward. Luckily the techniques I had learnt two days earlier immediately came to mind and I dug in my ice axe. I stopped sliding straight away, and was left looking over the precipice, wondering how I had managed to fall wearing ten-point crampons.
Walking on we soon emerged out of the clag. Clear blue sky greeted us, with magnificent views across the green valleys below. Just an hour or so later we were back at the car. I dropped my rucksack into the boot and sat quietly on a rock nearby as the others sorted out their kit. Looking back at Cairn Gorm and thinking about the last couple of days, I reflected on why I enjoyed doing this sort of thing. Ater all, it is physically tough at times and uncomfortable too. Perhaps it’s the sense of personal achievement, the notion of testing your limits and becoming more resilient. The views also seem so much better and more rewarding when you have to earn them. But more than anything else, I think it’s the feeling of being truly alive that draws me to some of the wildest places that Britain has to offer.
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