Cold Wilderness

I am Alex Cowan, a polar expedition leader and earth scientist with an interest in climate and oceanography. I run sea ice and atmospheric data collection projects in the Arctic and Antarctic while working as a guide. I am an experienced yachtsman, skier and mountaineer and have provided crevasse rescue training to groups working in glaciated terrain. I am a Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society and of The Explorers Club. Feel free to contact me for advice, ask a question or if you have an idea for collaboration.

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With lockdown on and off one of the remaining freedoms has been the ability to get outside in the fresh air. The winter got off to a good start and as of now just hasn’t stopped with endless snow and ice. Here’s some early season granite mixed climbing at Cha No, Schneachda and Lochain in the Cairngorms.

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Greybeard

“OOOOOOOOM!”

Arms stretched a thousand miles wide, Greybeard rolled forward.

“OOOOOOOOM!”

Ocean waves are born in storm, destined to die on distant rocky shores, but not Greybeard. He was one of the Immortals. Born 30 million years ago, he surged eastward without relent. He had lost count of the number of times he had passed The Narrowing. He knew no rocky shore.

“OOOOOOOOM!”

With this latest storm he had grown taller and mightier. The wind had wrought in him an anger as frightening as it was uncontrollable and unstoppable. He had become a vast brine leviathan, a living being of foam and crushing water, thundering onwards and downwards, crushing and swallowing anything lying before him. Monarch of the ocean, all bowed before Greybeard and the cohort of Immortals.

“OOOOOOOOM!”

A great white animal thundered over Greybeard. An expert mass of twisting sinews and drumming feathers the bird skimmed the sea, paralleling Greybeard’s long white ridge of cresting froth. A furious wavelet leapt skywards; the Roaring Forties instantly turned the water to shrapnel, pelting the bird with icy shards of vapour. But the aviatrix was unflinching. An eternal wanderer, it swung stiffly down Greybeard’s foaming shirtfront and turned its head; for a second they looked into each other. Pelagic exiles both, they saw in each others’ souls a part of themselves and then suddenly the bird was gone, soaring high into the sky and vanishing into the spindrift that covered the sea like a mist.

“OOOOOOOOM!”

Implacable, Greybeard obeyed nothing but his urge to go east, surging and tumbling onwards in the Sisyphean search for the fabled rocky shore all Immortals waited for with a patience as infinite as their quest.

“OOOOOOOOM!”

For 30 million years now he had waited. He had seen many changes, but recently he had seen something unexpected. Men were here. They did not live here. They were not like the birds. They were not like Greybeard.

Greybeard remembered some of these men; a dirty group huddled beneath one of their wooden craft on a narrow beach, while a hundred miles away six desperate compatriots clung stubbornly to their tiny boat as they had ridden up Greybeard’s face. Their stress-lined visages were locked in rictuses of terror as they clung to the gunnels, staring up at Greybeard’s toppling crown of foam. The boat full of water, they had somehow survived and had slipped down his back, vanishing into the dark night. Greybeard had always wondered what had happened to them. A year later, in a wind-whipped fury, his fingers had trailed along that narrow beach, destroying the upturned boat. But the stranded men lay there no more.

Today men came in mightier vessels. Built of cold, hard steel, they thundered through his body, leaving great foaming scars across his back.

“OOOOOOOOM!”

As the storm faded and the winds dropped to an exhausted breath, Greybeard relaxed. He sank downwards and spread his body out wide. Still soaring forward without pause, his anger was gone for the moment.

“Ooom!”

“Ooom!”

Ahead a bright red ship steamed across his path. Greybeard watched as he closed in. He recognized this ship; their paths had crossed before, usually in The Narrowing. Whenever he saw these ships he thought of those six terrified men in their dinghy and he looked up. As he met the ship it rose gently on his back, sliding off unsteadily as he passed beneath. Through the windows he saw people inside. Some looked back at him. In them he saw nothing. But he thought of those six men. In them he had seen himself.

“Ooom!”

Forgotten already, Greybeard left the ship behind. Rested now, the wind began to grow again, full of a new vitality. An electric hum filled the sky. Scudding clouds heralded the coming storm.

“Oooooom!”

Growing tall he felt his anger rising. He rose up, proud and mighty, his crown of foam spilling down his face in the fading light. Night fell and Greybeard rose.

“Oooooom!”

A howling filled the air. Some call it the sound of the wind. Others know it is the sound of something else. Something implacable. Something searching. Something infinite.

“OOOOOOOOM!”

Arms stretched a thousand miles wide, Greybeard rolled forward. He waited for his rocky shore.

“OOOOOOOOM!”

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In Praise of Fear - A Love Note to Trad

The picture is of pitch three of a mountain route in the heart of the Cairngorms. While moderate in difficulty the climbing was sustained and close to my onsight limit. The crux was protected by a rusting piton, flaking away and wafer thin where it entered the rock. As I made the crux moves, terrified of the consequences of a fall (i.e. tumbling down the slab being showered with shards of rust), I reflected on how much more enjoyable the climbing would be with a bolt protecting it.

I held it together through the rest of the sparsely protected pitch, arriving at the belay feeling a bit sick. Surely this route would be better with a bolt or two?

But as days have passed the memory of the route has not faded as others do. The psychological difficulty I encountered, caused by the degree of protection, was as much a challenge as the physical difficulty. With a bolt this challenge would be gone, and so would this now treasured memory. Traditional climbing challenges you in more ways than you expect, and you have to rise to the challenge set by nature. Even leaving the ground can be a psychological battle. I feel very lucky to live in a country where traditional climbing is the norm.

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Just wandering around, checking out the landscape. Do I want to live here?

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Enjoying a blustery and showery day climbing rough, solid granite in the heart of the Cairngorm mountains of Scotland. After two hours walking in across the wild plateau we climbed the crag classic, Whispers, VS 4c, a reasonably protected and fantastic route. We then jumped on Bellows, the adjacent HVS 5a. This turned out to be right at my limit and I had an intense experience making hard moves above marginal gear, just about holding it together to the end of the pitch. A great day out climbing hard (for me!) trad in a genuinely wild setting.

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Enjoying a couple of weeks back in the NW Highlands. While walking up and down the road making phone calls (house with no WiFi or reception) I noticed this wreck below our place!

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Towards the end of our Alpine rock road trip we headed up to the Albigna cirque for three nights. The highlight was a day on the Meuli route and the NW Ridge of Punta Albigna - 500m of classic Albigna sandbag (it's not F4c, it's VS 4c) on dreamy Alpine slabs, cracks and corners.

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Moving veeeery slowly on easy ground at Freggio. For some reason we got on a 1000m 6a at midday and then discovered we still can't climb runout friction slab at 12 mins/pitch. Bailed after pitch six...

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After warming up on some sport climbs and long rock routes, we drove around the Ecrins to La Berarde and made the slog up to the Seraillier refuge. This cirque is dominated by the relatively diminutive but undeniably stunning Dibona, but we headed up behind it for a fantastic morning out on the Central Aiguille du Sereillier. Stunning solid alpine granite, mostly scrambling but with one easy pitch of belayed climbing. Classic climbing and loads of fun on a bluebird day.

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Starting an Alpine road trip. Chilly starts in shady valleys, blazing sun on high rock routes and flying upwards from bolt to bolt with tiny packs.

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Enjoying the end of the British summer shunting at Curbar!

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The Ephemeral Pole

On August 5th 2018, after spending a day on the ice at 89°55′N, we fired up the helicopter and headed back north. Finding a thick and solid floe of ice around a quarter of a mile south of 90° we set up a landing site and began ferrying passengers from the ship. 

On a brittle 2m-thick skin of ice floating on top of over 4000m of ocean we landed the helicopter over and over while we drifted with the wind inexorably north. After three hours of this drifting we found ourselves just a short scramble over pressure ridges away from the magical 90°N. Standing directly on the pole it became clear just how ephemeral this point is. Seconds after finding it, it was gone, half a metre to your left or right. We chased this phantom across the ice, zig-zagging constantly but only ever moving north; like a will-o'-the-wisp the pole always receded at our approach, never letting us stand upon it for more than a few seconds. The moment we found it we immediately slithered back off this latitudinal summit.

I always thought of the Geographic Poles as fixed points, and relative to the earth’s surface they are, but in the Arctic Ocean the sea ice, insignificantly thin though it may seem to be, lends its own ephemeral nature to the pole. The importance of this skin of ice is out of all proportion to its thickness, influencing climate across the world, but it was an amazing moment to find that it is also so important when it comes to our relationship with the planet’s axis of rotation.

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50 let Pobedy is the latest of the Arktika-class nuclear-powered icebreakers. She spends most of the year escorting convoys and maintaining the NE Passage, but every summer she thunders her way to the North Pole and back five times, proudly following in the footsteps of her sister ship Arktika, which in 1977 became the first surface vessel to reach the North Pole.

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Ever wondered what it looks like to be run over like an icebreaker?? Having fun with the most powerful icebreaker in the world!

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We are back in the UK after a good but exhausting month making three visits to the North Pole, sailing via Franz Josef Land from Murmansk, Russia. Great heli flights, fun landings, the usual Arctic fogs and endless daylight and lots and lots of icebreaking. The sea ice project is continuing and we are looking forward to continuing its expansion next year!

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A nice little summer holiday climbing and hiking (and swimming and eating ice cream) in the Lake District before heading to Russia for work!

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A few highlights from an awesome season working as expedition leader for Natural World Safaris on the new polar tour vessel R/V Kinfish. With just 12 passengers it really was the dream of flexibility we dreamt of. The work was unrelenting and the experience exhausting but it was all worth it and we will be back for more adventures and amazing wildlife next year.