Field Notes

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.