The daylight is gone. The skys are grey. Gunbolt metallic. Sometimes crystal, but not all that often

Certainly not at the weekend.

Early season adventures, you'd think they'd be easy. The snow just a dusting, the ice still on its way. Yet this year every trip out has been wading. Powder as deep as the thigh or perhaps deeper for those under 5'10. Step, push, step, push. The effort of moving is enormous. We're going downhill and yet it felt impossible. Poles pushing me forwards, but heavy feet, heavy legs, heavy bag, pulling me back. 

This for miles. Or at least it looks miles. In the white, distance lies in the eye of the beholder. The task was as mortifying as the methodical thoughtless nature of it, is one to relish. 

Hoods are up. The wind is dropping but the view grows faint. The hill goes flat, then up, then back again. We pass between boulders. Some big, some small. The Shelterstone is enormous, but the holes beneath other rocks are bigger. Could swallow a man whole, especially if its not a whole man. 

Settling down under 20 feet of granite. Sleeping like that you live for the moment, Its been still for an age. A sentinel for adventure, safeguarding those who venture into the wild. Strange to think its occurrence on the valley floor could be a product of such violent beginnings.   

The frost is everywhere. It  covers the walls, fills the torch light. 

Step, push, step, push. This time steeper and only up. At this hour you see little but sense everything. The brilliance of the stars shrouded behind white walls bathed in moonlight. 

In the end, the land was frozen, but the route was not. The vision of axes thunking into frozen turf 

was all it was. Good things come to those that wait, but better things come to those that go. Winter will wait, but i'll always go. After all, what is life without a role of dice.    

Walking out to Carn Etchachan after a night under the Shelterstone. A frozen landscape bathed in moonlight.