Field Notes

Every now and then you share a moment with a place, a person or both that will stick with you forever. This weekend I had one of those moments, freezing my knackers off halfway up Coniston Old Man eating a lukewarm dehydrated meal. It had been a prime November day in the lakes. Pissing round with your mates whilst bagging Wainwrights, living on your own time with not a care in the world - The kind of day you long for throughout the week. The hike was steady and the Wainwrights were out in all their glory, the rain even held off for the most part.  The pitch was flat and secluded and even though I accidentally left Nappers tent zip open for him to freeze to death (Sorry mate but still your fault), it couldn’t have been a better place to kip for the night. And as we sat there, shivering, debating whether 6:30pm is a credible bedtime for three fully-grown adults, the most amazing thing happened.   The thick cloud that suffocated the mountains for most of the day split perfectly, showcasing the most incredibly beautiful, nearly-full moon that seemed so close you could almost pick it out of the sky. The cold no longer mattered, the body no longer felt tired and any of the stresses of everyday life just melted away. In this moment, with my two mates, there was nothing else to do apart from watch the sky perform this show, which seemed to be for our eyes only. And that got me thinking, it’s moments like these that keep you coming back for more. Yes we got pissed wet through the following day, had no gas to cook breakfast and had no water until our mouth was dryer than the Sahara, but does it matter? Absolutely bloody not. Would I do it all again? In a heartbeat. There are so many people on this planet who will never experience those moments the mountains offer so often, the ones which put everything into perspective. Whether they care or not is another story, but having shared many of these moments throughout my time, i can firmly say the world would be a better place if everybody spent more time connecting to nature in this way. It’s with this mantra that Summit Systems was born. Making lightweight, stripped-back quality kit to help people seek those soul soothing moments with nature.  And that’s our mission, to motivate people to get off their screens, get out there and experience what truly matters. Over and Out  

Start: Coniston Grid Reference: SD 30197 97594 Route Type: Circular (Anti-Clockwise) If bagging Wainwrights is your hustle, this one is not to be overlooked. This route ticks off seven over the course of 23.5k and 1600m of elevation whilst delivering what every good expedition in the Lakes should - Incredible pitches and killer ascent. Tucked far enough away from the hustle and bustle of Windemere whilst still being accessible, Coniston was once home to a thriving Coppermine that dates back to Roman times. Nowadays however, the area is more accustomed to seasoned hikers and adventurists.  Standing tall behind the town, the Coniston Fells are the perfect playground for any explorer and can be conquered in one expedition, or, as we would recommend, over two days to experience everything this changing landscape has to offer. From the village, head East towards the fells. Be prepared for the ascent out on Coniston towards Walna Scar car park as it is not for the faint hearted. Upon arriving at the car park, take the steady pull up towards the first Wainwright of the day, Dow Crag. From Dow Crag onwards the route stays high along the ridgeline towards Coniston Old Man which can make for some simply incredible viewing should the weather play ball. Once at the summit, we recommend descending around 200 metres towards the tarn to pitch up. This spot offers the evening solitude of the mountains and a morning view you want on repeat.   From here, re-trace your steps up the Old man, before continuing anti-clockwise to Brim Fell, Grey  Friar, Great Carrs, Swirl How and finally Wetherlam, where you will make the steady descent back to Coniston via the old Coppermines. Once back, settle into The Crown for some heart-warming pub grub and a beverage of your choice whilst you thaw out in front of the fireplace. As with all expeditions in the Lakes, the weather can turn quickly, so make sure you have spare warm, dry layers, adequate waterproofs, suitable footwear and enough gas to cook your dinner Pro Tip: Take a pair of Swimmers for the descent as the Coppermines offer the most beautifully refreshing plunge pools en-route back to the village. Over and Out  

If you’ve got to this blog, you probably already know what we’re about and who we are. But in this field note, I set off wanting to talk about the process of design and how it works here at Summit Systems. Then, as I started to vomit some words into a Google Doc, I realised it wasn’t really the process I wanted to talk about at all. It was the passion for design itself, and for building something with my three mates. Hopefully, it might inspire someone else to create something from the madness that wakes them from their dreams. Design. I’d argue it’s the most important process in the business - although Tomo would probably waffle on about some marketing BS (sorry, Tomo). Before Summit Systems, I had a solid job. One that would be the dream for most people. I finished at 11:00 on Fridays (yep, 11:00 a.m.), got to travel a fair bit, and had genuinely sound bosses, for the most part! There was hardly ever a dull moment in the office, now whether that’s a good thing or not is another story. I had the freedom to design new products, and was rarely stopped if I spent a day sat at a sewing machine because I couldn’t face another one in front of a computer screen. But the problem was, it wasn’t ours. As a designer, I’ve always craved to make things. To finish the day with something tangible you can hold on your hands at the end of it. And although I often had that opportunity, it never felt like those products were mine. At the old job, there were days I’d get properly psyched about a new design tweak or a product concept. I’d go to bed thinking about it. For a lot of people, having work on their mind at bedtime might sound like a nightmare, but for me, that’s great. Design is my passion and the day I stop going to bed thinking about my designs will be the day I pack it all in and go into designing road signs. But it turns out that going to sleep with ideas on your mind is the bare minimum. Until Summit Systems, I never understood that the real excitement, the ideas that make your pulse race, come from the dreams that wake you up. I’ve been wanting to write a field note about my design process for a while, but I wasn’t sure what bits of knowledge I wanted to pass on, what key aspects I felt to be most important or could be most useful to you. I’m only 28, so it’s not like I’ve got any deep philosophical wisdom to bestow in the grand scheme of things. But then, after a long day on CAD producing technical tent drawings on another random day of working on a Summit Systems project , I woke up at 04:30 with an idea about how we could make tents clip together so you can chat to your mates when it’s pissing it down outside. But that moment,  half-asleep, half-alive with excitement, that’s when it hit me. True passion isn’t going to bed with something on your mind. It’s waking up because of it. Summit Systems was built on that kind of restless energy, the ideas that don’t let you sleep, the sketches drawn on the back of receipts, the half-baked prototypes that somehow work better than the “proper” ones. That’s what drives us onward. We started Summit Systems in the car, on a trip up to Scotland from just spitballing ideas of names and what we wanted to bring to the outdoor space. Design isn’t just our job; it’s the thing that drags us out of bed at stupid o’clock with a head full of ideas and a notebook that can’t keep up. So if there’s something that wakes you before your alarm - an idea, a problem, a wild dream that won’t let go - go and grab it. That’s where the good stuff lives. That’s where we will be. Or you’ll be seeing my road signs when you’re out and about. Over and out.

There’s nothing quite like the glow you get after a big hike, the mix of tired legs, fresh air in your lungs, and the quiet pride of knowing you spent your day scrambling over ridgelines while most people were glued to a screen. But as magical as the trail feels in the moment, the next morning often delivers a rude reality check. Suddenly those heroic quads feel like lead pipes, your calves are staging a rebellion, and even walking down the stairs feels like a small expedition of its own. That’s where recovery rituals come into play. The hours after a hike are just as important as the trek itself if you want to bounce back quickly. First things first: hydrate. It sounds obvious, but it’s amazing how often people forget that all that sweating and climbing drains your reserves. Knocking back water, and better yet, throwing in some electrolytes, does wonders for reducing cramping and fatigue. Once you’ve rehydrated, don’t collapse into the car seat or couch just yet. A few minutes of gentle stretching can be the difference between waking up limber or waking up stuck in the world’s least flattering squat position. If you’re lucky enough to finish near a stream or lake, dunking your legs in cold water might sound like torture, but it works. Even a cool shower when you get home helps calm inflammation and leaves your muscles less swollen. Pair that with a good meal, something hearty with protein and carbs, and you’ve set yourself up for a smoother recovery. Sure, the post-hike burger is practically a tradition, but slipping some veggies onto your plate gives you the antioxidants your body needs to repair itself faster. For the truly sore, a little DIY massage can make all the difference. A foam roller, massage ball, or even a tennis ball under your calves works out those knots before they harden into concrete. It’s not always pleasant in the moment, but your legs will thank you later. And then, of course, there’s the ultimate recovery tool, sleep. Hiking puts serious stress on your body, and nothing resets the system quite like a solid night of rest. Whether you’re back at home in your bed or sprawled out on a sleeping pad in a tent, prioritize quality shut-eye if you want to feel fresh the next day. The final piece of the puzzle is surprisingly simple: keep moving. It’s tempting to spend the whole next day glued to the sofa, but light movement, a short walk, some easy yoga, even just pottering around the house, helps blood flow to your muscles and eases lingering stiffness. Think of it as loosening the gears after a long grind. In the end, hiking shouldn’t leave you hobbling for days. With a little attention to how you treat your body afterward, you can cut down on soreness and get back to doing what you love sooner. Because while those mountain views are the prize, feeling strong enough to chase the next one is the real win.

There’s a particular kind of silence you only find deep in the mountains. The kind that follows you like a shadow when the runners have thinned out, the sun has gone, and your body is beginning to forget how to move forward. I met that silence in the Highlands on June 6th, somewhere around mile 72, after nearly 20 hours on my feet. It was both terrifying and strangely beautiful. I signed up for the GB Ultras Scotland 100 not to tick a box or chase a medal, but to see what I was made of. I wanted to push myself to a place where comfort couldn’t follow. And I found it, about 72 miles in, soaked to the bone, freezing, and humbled by the landscape. The day began as the Highlands intended: sideways rain, heavy clouds, and wind that felt like it had something personal against us. My shoes, my only pair, were wet almost immediately. Not damp. Not “I’ll dry out soon” wet. Fully, irreversibly saturated. The kind of wet that squelches with every step, the kind that makes blisters inevitable. But I was still smiling. There’s something about the early miles in a big race, before the suffering really sets in, that’s intoxicating. The trail was stunning in that wild, untamed way only Scotland can offer: jagged ridgelines, moody skies, and vast, open spaces that remind you how small you are. That beauty stayed with me, even when everything else started to fade. Then came the midges. I’d heard about them, of course, but nothing prepared me for the reality: clouds of them, relentless, crawling into every exposed inch of skin, swarming your face, your hands, your sanity. You can’t outrun them. You just keep moving, one foot in front of the other, hoping you find wind, or salvation, around the next bend. As day slipped into night, the trail got quieter, the cold set in deeper, and my mind began to blur. I realized I’d made some big mistakes: my fuelling had been inconsistent; I hadn’t trained as seriously as the distance demanded; and I’d spent too much of the early race trying to match other runners’ paces instead of running my own rhythm. The price for those choices came due somewhere past mile 60. By mile 72, I was done. Not broken, not injured, just finished. My body had given everything it had. My hands were numb. I couldn’t keep warm. I couldn’t think clearly. I knew that continuing meant risking something more than pride. So I stopped. Quietly. Without drama. Just a few words to my crew, a final look at the trail, and that was it. It’s easy to tie your sense of success to the finish line. To believe that “Did Not Finish” equals “Did Not Achieve.” But I walked away from this race with more than I ever expected. I didn’t get the buckle, but I got something better: lessons I’ll carry into every ultra to come. I learned to pack more than one pair of shoes. To respect the cold, especially in the early hours of the morning when the temperature drops and your brain goes quiet. To eat even when I don’t feel like eating. To prepare like the mountains are watching. And, maybe most importantly, to run my race, not someone else’s. Would I go back? Without hesitation. Because even though I didn’t reach mile 100, I reached something else, something harder to name but more important to me. I reached the edge I came looking for. And when the trail finally said “not today,” I listened. Some runs end with medals. Some end with muddy shoes in the back of a car, a thousand-yard stare, and the quiet knowledge that you gave it everything you had. I’ll be back. With dry socks, a better plan, and unfinished business. Until then, I’ll hold those 72 miles close.  

There’s something deeply satisfying about pitching your shelter far from any road, town, or trailhead. No crowds, no noise, just you, your kit, and the open land. But let’s be honest: dragging a heavy pack over hills, through bog, and up ridgelines can suck the joy out of even the most scenic wild camp. The good news? With a few tweaks, you can carry less, move better, and still enjoy the essentials (and even a few luxuries). If you’ve ever struggled under a 20-kilo pack and thought, “There’s got to be a better way,” you’re not alone. Most of us start out packing too much, and too heavy. Over time, experience (and sore shoulders) teach us to choose more wisely. Let’s start with the big-ticket items: shelter, sleep system, and pack. These three usually account for most of the weight you carry, and they offer the biggest opportunity to slim down. A traditional two-person tent can easily top two or three kilos, but swap it for an ultralight one-person tent or tarp and you could save half that weight. Many solo campers even ditch the tent entirely in dry weather and sleep under the stars with a bivvy bag. Next, take a look at your sleep system. Quilts are lighter than sleeping bags, and when paired with a decent mat, they still keep you warm down to the same temperatures. Inflatable mats with high insulation ratings weigh far less than they used to, and ditching the pillow in favour of a stuff sack full of clothes is a classic ultralight trick that saves both space and grams. And if your pack still weighs over two kilos, it’s worth reconsidering. Once your kit is slimmed down, you simply don’t need a huge frame or padded hip belt anymore. A frameless pack under 1.2kg is often more than enough and feels more agile on rough ground. One of the most surprising additions to a light pack? A camping chair. No, not the big canvas ones you’d use at a festival. We’re talking about ultralight chairs that weigh around 400–500g but give you a proper backrest and a warm, dry seat at camp. For long days on the trail, that comfort might make the difference between a rushed dinner and a relaxed evening under the stars. On the cooking front, minimalism works wonders. Ditch the pan set and spork collection. A titanium mug and a tiny stove will get you fed. If you’re willing to go a step further, you can skip the stove entirely. Cold-soaking couscous or instant oats works surprisingly well and removes the need for fuel, pot, or stove altogether. When it comes to water, many of us overdo it. Don’t lug litres unnecessarily. Plan your route around refill points, and carry a filter or purification tablets instead. Soft bottles or collapsible flasks weigh less and pack smaller than hard bottles. Clothing is where “just in case” thinking creeps in. You don’t need a fresh outfit for each day. One base layer for hiking, one for sleeping, and a lightweight down or synthetic jacket for warmth. A good shell handles wind and rain. Leave the cotton behind, it holds moisture and weighs you down. You might be surprised how much space opens up once you pare things down. Food, for instance, is another easy win. Choose calorie-dense options like nuts, nut butter, and dehydrated meals. Repackage everything into ziplock bags, bulk packaging is dead weight. Finally, weigh everything. Literally. Use a digital scale and start a spreadsheet. You’ll soon spot which bits of kit are worth their weight and which are just baggage. Many wild campers aim for a base weight (gear minus food and water) under 7kg. Under 5kg if you're keen. In the end, going light is about finding your sweet spot. You’re not racing anyone, but the lighter your pack, the more freedom you have to roam. The less you carry, the more you notice. The less you worry, the more you enjoy. That’s the real magic of wild camping: not just surviving out there, but actually loving every step of it.