Freezeframe – one last journey into the Cairngorms before the world changed
Five years ago, with the first Covid lockdown imminent and a perfect forecast, I decided to seize the opportunity to complete a long-dreamed-of Cairngorms traverse in perfect winter conditions...
🌄 Author's note: A version of this story was first published by The Great Outdoors magazine in 2021. At the time this trip took place, in early March 2020, it felt as if I stood on the edge: of a terrifying pandemic-riddled world, perhaps even the end of my freedom to stravaig in the Scottish mountains. I lived in Lincolnshire at the time and would not have the opportunity to return to the Highlands for 18 months afterwards. It's no exaggeration to say that the gift of this particular journey sustained me through those difficult months. And its message of hope changed me forever. Scroll to the bottom for a 2025 coda containing extracts direct from my private journals.
There was a sense, that week, of the world drawing in on itself. The headlines were full of apocalyptic warnings as the number of daily COVID-19 cases in the UK crept up from one or two to ten or twelve. I don’t think anyone could predict just how much our lives would change in a short period of time, but I felt one thing powerfully, instinctively: while it lasts, enjoy the freedom you have now.
I felt the pull of wide landscapes and vast skies. As I traced ridgelines on maps and studied guidebooks I realised that I’d already planned the perfect itinerary. Back in February 2015, I’d arrived in Aviemore to find the Northern Cairngorms blanketed in deep snow. Even walking up through Rothiemurchus was a struggle. By the time I reached the little gear shop at Glenmore, I realised that without snowshoes I’d be going nowhere; fortunately they had a pair of inexpensive plastic ones they didn’t mind selling to me. After a night at Ryvoan bothy, I struggled to the summit of Bynack More the next day in atrocious weather, fighting my way through thigh-deep drifts, and decided to turn back before it got any worse. My ambition for a multi-summit winter tour of the Loch A’an Basin would have to wait. And wait it did – for five years.
As lockdown loomed, I knew that the time was right to return and have another go. It felt more urgent than any trip I’d planned in years. This time the weather would be on my side, and I dropped TGO’s Chris Townsend1 a line to see if he fancied joining me for part of the journey. “Sounds great,” Chris replied. “Let’s meet up at Glenmore and head over Ryvoan Pass.”
Although it’s easy to get a bus as far as Glenmore, I’d rather take my time and walk up through the forest, which is what I did on a bright and sunny morning in the first week of March 2020. Snow banks piled up by the sides of the paths glistened in the sunshine, while the paths themselves had been packed down by countless boots and then refrozen hard into a glassy patina of ice. The air felt calm but with a delicious bite. I crunched through the woods, letting my gaze drift unfocused through the wall of trees ahead of me.
Chris met me at the cafe in Glenmore. As we discussed plans over an unfolded map my excitement began to mount. “The forecast’s great for the next couple of days,” Chris said, and he nodded at the snowshoes strapped to my rucksack. “Snow cover is great on the plateau too. I think you’ll get some use out of those.” He’d packed snowshoes as well. As a relative newbie to this subtle winter art I was looking forward to picking up a few tips from the master.
We ambled slowly up through the forest towards An Lochan Uaine (the Green Lochan) and Ryvoan Pass, just above the treeline. This is a magical place where the interplay of forest, moorland, water and mountain creates something greater than the sum of its parts – a place of intricacies and ever-changing complex detail. The young trees seemed to have leapt upwards by a foot or more since my last visit. When Chris and I found a spot to camp next to the River Nethy with a view over to Bynack More, I remarked that the rowan saplings on the other side of the river seemed taller than I remembered. “They are,” he said. “I remember when there were no young trees here at all. This place is changing fast.”
