I crouched, shivering, beside the makeshift stove. A small pan filled with snow was balanced above the gas canister, the small blue flame hissing and sputtering in the wind. Slowly, slowly, the snow melted, decreasing in volume as it did so. I scooped more snow into the pan and waited, my hands curled into fists in a vain attempt to hold onto the warmth.
Night arrived quicker than the snow could melt. Around me, the mountains were growing dark. The snow clung onto the light long after the sky had frowned the sun away.
I hadn’t believed we were actually going to sleep outside (in January!) until late afternoon. When we had set off from the bus stop in the morning, crunching our way over the snow and squinting against the sun’s reflection, the night had seemed so far away. We followed the track – and the other people – up through the forest.
‘Popular route,’ I commented.
David shrugged. ‘Easy winter walking.’
It was true: the track, probably a road in summer, wound gradually up the mountain. Not too steep, not too treacherous. The other people we passed were dressed casually for a short day’s hike, small rucksacks containing little more than a bottle of water. Not like ours, packed full of overnight gear.
Eventually, we left the trees behind. Here was the hut: the final destination for most of our fellow hikers. Continuing on, we had the path to ourselves for the first time.
It was little wonder why. From here, the path narrowed, became steeper, more exposed; the wind picked up. Trudging up the final ascent to the wooden cross that stood bleak and lonely at the peak, we pulled our hoods up over our hats, over our faces too as far as it was possible, to avoid being bitten by the cold, ferocious gusts that whipped up over the ridge.
At the summit, we encountered a small group of people who were similarly trying to ward off the hungry wind. They spotted the sleeping mat rolled up on the outside of my rucksack, but didn’t seem surprised by the idea: ‘Are you sleeping up here?’
‘Yes. Bivvying,’ David replied.
We didn’t have so much as a tent: just two thick sleeping bags and two sleeping mats. After reaching the summit, we descended down the other side of the mountain into untrodden territory. Over here, there were no towns, no people: just mountains, snow and forest.
We skidded down the steep snowy slope as the sun slipped below the horizon.
‘Look!’ David said. ‘There are some huts. Maybe they’re unlocked and we can sleep inside.’
Was that cheating? On the one hand, if we were going to do this, I wanted to do it properly. On the other hand – sleeping outside in winter…?
We tried all the doors of all the huts, but they were padlocked shut. The light was leaking away around us. ‘Let’s at least sleep next to the hut, so it protects us against the wind.’
As we started to set up camp, I could feel the warmth gained from the exertion of the hike now beginning to fade, and pulled on my remaining clothes. My down jacket suddenly felt very thin. And I felt afraid. There was no escape from the cold, which still approached us from three if not four directions…
It felt almost like a miracle when, on going round to the back of the hut to relieve myself, I spotted a low, wooden roof that I hadn’t noticed before. I trudged through the deep snow towards it and discovered a small shelter, probably intended for animals. Not big enough to stand in, but enough space to lie down with four walls and a roof over our heads.
After we had moved our camp into our new abode, I crouched, shivering, beside the makeshift stove. The time: six o’clock in the evening and already dark. It was going to be a long, cold night.