The steppe in late September
By the end of September the grass turns the colour of weak tea and the wind never quite stops. Distances lie here: a ridge that looks an hour away takes a whole afternoon.
Field Notes
Occasional writing on long walks, old maps and slow travel.
Reading a 1910 survey sheet
Old survey sheets mark wells, winter camps and fords that no longer exist. Lining them up against a modern map is slow work, but every now and then a forgotten track lines up exactly.
On packing light
Three seasons of trial and error came down to one rule: if it has not been used for two trips in a row, it stays at home.