TGO Challenge 2013 Day 7: Two Rucksacks Walking

Having waited for the Kingussie Post Office to open at 9.00am to send a few bits and pieces home, I set off on the first of what were to be two fabulozy days on the Challenge.  Possibly the best two.  Weather, walk, scenery, fitness and company all combined in a happy coincidence of happiness.  Leaving the village you soon come to the ruins of the Ruthven Barracks.  At this point, just in front of me, were two rucksacks walking.  I joke not.  There were two massive rucksacks walking slowly along the road all by themselves.  Clearly Challenger rucksacks, they appeared unaccompanied by their Challenger owners as they slowly made their way up the slight incline towards Tromie Bridge.  I assumed they had wandered off when the door of a B and B had been carelessly left open. I hoped they were micro-chipped so they could be returned to their owners when picked up by the stray rucksack catcher from the Council.  At this point I stopped to put on my waterproofs (I always carry waterproofs whilst walking across Scotland because I am very experienced in the carrying of waterproofs in places which have a climate where water regularly falls from the sky.  If you wonder what I am now taking, you may want to refer back to my earlier post TGOC 2013 Day Minus 1:Do I really look that stupid?).  As it happened this was the last rain, such as it was, until Saturday lunchtime, and it was now only Thursday so this was the start of Scotland’s driest spell since records began.

I caught the rucksacks up.  “Heading up Glen Feshie?”, called I, to the leading rucksack.  “Yes we are, but don’t follow us as we will be walking slowly” called the leading rucksack in a female voice.  It seemed bizarre that a rucksack could talk, but even stranger, it had an American accent.  And this was my introduction to the legendary Phyllis and Lou from Maryland in the US of A.  Both octogenarians, they were on their umpteenth Challenge.  Both are tiny so they were completely dwarfed by their packs.  Their gutsiness is in inverse proportion to their height.  And both of them oozed loveliness and positivity.  Our paths were to cross a number of times over the next two days.

Towards Glen Feshie

Over the next hour or so I met and walked for short distances with a number of other great Challengers.  Matt Little again, a really good guy; Bob Cartwright and his two companions, Bob wearing the most expensive black bin liner in the history of bin liners, which was doubling as a wind shirt.  I gave Bob some feedback about his company “Backpacking  Light”.  This was along the lines of “brilliant customer service, wish the range was greater because I could then buy all my stuff from you” and also Richard (sorry I didn’t get his second name), who I walked with for much of the morning.

A happy bunny on a  nice strong bridge over the Feshie

And so it was through a lovely forest or two in the sun, and then into Glen Feshie which was just perfect.  Lunch by a delightful stream of the babbling brook variety.  A brief stop at the bothy.  Held a conversation there, at cross purposes, with Chris Leach, which almost led to me making a bad decision.  I explained to him that I planned to camp further up the Glen, and would head for Mar Lodge on the following day.  “Why not stop here?” he asked.  “Because then I would have to walk 32 or 33 tomorrow and that’s further than I would like” I replied.  “Nah”, says he “it’s only just over 19 from here”.  We argued slightly about this, with Chris insisting his vetter had said it was 19.  My route plan clearly showed 30 plus.

I was tempted as the bothy looked rather good.  Then I cottoned on what the issue was.  Chris was talking imperial; I was talking metric.  19 miles is just over 30km.  Glad I stuck to my guns.  It was good to do a few more km today to even out the distances over the two days. 

 

Glen Feshie beyond the bothy

 

 


Lazy afternoon at a brill camp spot

I was even gladder as I walked up the lovely glen for a few more km as I came to a brilliant camp spot near the river.  It was only 3.00pm ish and I had planned to go slightly further, but the sun was out, and a brew beckoned, so the Akto was up and I had a lazy few hours drinking tea, cooking, eating Snickers ie Marathons, chatting to passing Challengers, and doing the numerous similarly important tasks that you can tackle when your pace of life is just perfect.  Two rucksacks hoved into view, Phyllis and Lou again, heading for the old pony hut some way further up the glen.  Graham and Marian arrived to camp and so did Karen and Lawrence from Holland.  And it was all just brilliant.



Looking down to the Akto before the late arrivals - I wandered up a bit higher to take this picture because I was feeling good!

TGOC 2013 Day 1: Excitement

I rarely sleep beyond 4.00am these days so after the obligatory cups of tea whilst lying in bed I was out for an early morning wander around Mallaig.  The weather was perfect.  Sun, a few fluffy clouds and no more than a slight breath of wind.  The harbour was still.  The water flat calm.  The gulls cried.  There was a smell of saIt, seaweed and diesel oil, so evocative of fishing ports.  It was serene.  For the first time in weeks my nerves vanished.  Just vanished.  And also for the first time in weeks I sensed a different emotion.  Excitement.  I could feel a silly grin appearing on my face.  Now just to digress from the Challenge tale for a moment, I must acknowledge the superfluous nature of the phrase “on my face” in the previous sentence, for where else can a grin appear but on the face?

Anyway, grinning like the Cheshire Cat I popped down to the Co-op and bought a sandwich for my lunch.  Good move, as over the coming days I was to became profoundly bored with trail mix and cereal bars.  Then back to the B and B.  Full Scottish.  Re-sort pack (again).  Up to the West Highland Hotel to sign out at 9.10am, meaning my Challenge formally started with a sit down, as I then had to wait until Bruce Watts weighed anchor at 10.15pm.

Mike Knipe contemplates a 45 minute boat trip before he can get to the pub

 

As a whole big bunch of Challengers waited for Bruce’s boat it started to rain lightly and intermittently.  Wanting not to risk having wet clothing earlier than necessary, I pulled on cag and overtrousers.  These were to remain on until I was finally in my tent several hours later.  I spotted a ULA Catalyst pack on another Challenger, and thus I met “Reuben’s Dad”, James Boulter, for the first time outside cyber space.  I have a bad habit of “knowing” if I like someone instantly, and I did.  Thoroughly nice guy.  Also on the boat was another person known, until then, only through the medium of wireless and fibre optics (although us country dwellers should be so lucky to ever get fibre optics).  This was Superdawg’s Dad, Mike Knipe, him of the driest sense of humour outside the Sahara.  And our new Dutch friends, Chaz and Dave were there too.

Crossing Loch Nevis on the way to Inverie

 45 minutes later we arrived at Inverie to the organised chaos of packs being removed from the hold (I am making this up as I go along, as the hold was just a blue tarpaulin on the deck) and passed up on to the bustling quayside.  Ok, this wasn’t Rotterdam but there was a bit of bustle.  Whilst James and I faffed around taking photos and getting our Pacer Poles out, Mike Knipe and various other old hands headed off at a speed of knots.  Not to walk, of course, but to get to the bar of the pub in Inverie before a queue built up.  That was my last view of Mike on the Challenge.

I walked with James for the first 45 minutes or so until our routes diverged.  I then headed off the LR track to get my first minor taste (I was only in it for 15 minutes) of Scottish bog as I cut across to Gleann Meadall and then started the gentle climb up to the col at the top of the Glen.  I walked this section alone, although I was aware of Chaz and Dave someway behind me.  The rain came on properly and its intensity increased steadily.  There were a group of Challengers resting at the Col when I arrived.  I believe some had left their packs there and had just “popped up” a nearby hill.

I had no intentions at any time on this Challenge of doing anything like that on my walk.  I had one aspiration and one aspiration only.  To get to the east coast.  Hills could wait for another time and another crossing.  Later in the Challenge, by the time I reached Braemar, this aspiration had actually turned into a specific, well thought out and simple strategy, which I shall elaborate on in a later post for anyone sad enough still to be reading by then.

The path down to Sourlies was far easier than I had anticipated; less steep than the impression I had gained from previous Challengers.  I walked across the bog and salt marshes, admiring a few grazing deer, with two others – I think it was Matt Little and Ian Somerville and the tide was low enough to allow us to walk round to the bothy on the beach and so avoid a final stiff pull up over the headland.

That's my little Akto near the Sourlies Bothy

 There is some lovely turf for camping on just before the bothy.  I decided to avoid this and save later arrivals the horror of my snoring by going on just beyond the bothy to a smaller patch of turf near a stream.  The Akto was up by 4.45pm.  The rain hammered down.  I hunkered down in the warmth of my tent and sleeping bag and brewed up.  Dave and Chaz went passed (should that be past?) at 5.30pm planning to walk to a bothy beyond Glen Dessarry (I later heard they walked until 11.00pm).

After my first dehydrated meal of the walk I thought that was me for the day.  Then I looked out of my tent.  The stream was well up.  The tide was in and the loch was high.  Pools of water were developing all around my tent.  I packed most of my stuff in case I had to bail out.  The rain continued.  At 8.00pm I was taking the tent down and moving to the turf the other side of the bothy which was on slightly higher ground.  Ian’s Duomid had been near mine.  He decided to risk staying put.  I had half an hour by the fire in the bothy before bed back in the tent.  Ian was moving his Duomid in the dark at 11.00pm as the rain kept falling….

After the move: this was a far drier spot

 

 

Not the Pre-Challenge Daunder

Well I had great plans.  No longer being in work when I applied for the Challenge, I believed that I would have plenty of time to get fully fit by May.  I would start off with doing a little more of what I do regularly – day walks in the hills with a day pack.  I would gradually extend the distance and the weights carried, and every so often have an overnighter.  Then as spring sprung in late February or early March I would have 2 or 3 longer backpacks carrying my TGOC kit, a couple of 4 nighters at least.  I particularly wanted to run a few long days together with no proper recuperation time for stiff muscles.

Well “plans never go to plan” do they, as every general since Field Marshall Hague has known.  On a positive side, I set up my own business and have been offered more work than I really want since October.  But this did eat in to the time I thought I would have available, and nights spent away from home in hotels on various jobs meant it less politic to spend too many other nights away from my long suffering and supportive wife.  Another big scupperer of plans has been the failure of spring to sprung at its allotted time.  Allotted by me that is.  Now if I was more determined, perhaps that might not matter, but the weather of late has been particularly venomous, has it not?  So to date my training has been no more than half a dozen generally low level walks, albeit ones where I have carried a reasonably hefty pack. So I can put it off no longer.   Come rain or snow or scorchio sun (fat chance) I am off for a few nights in the Akto at the back end of next week.  My route is not yet chosen but it will be close to home in Cumbria.  I will leave it for a few days to decide the route.  High if the snow clears quickly, low if not.  And with luck I will have another such trip in mid to late April as my final warm up. Messrs Sloman, Walker and Lambert refer to their long standing practice of undertaking such a trip as a “Pre-Challenge Daunder” which is a lovely expression.  It would be sacrilege to steal this fine phrase.  So I have named my own trip my “Pre-Challenge Plod” (Gedditt? My PC Plod). To be continued……..

A Load of Old Bull: Day 1 on the Cumbria Way. Fighting Fear and Phobia

Fear is the mind killer.  Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration.  I will face my fear.  I will permit it to pass over me and through me.  And when it has gone past me I will turn to see fear’s path.  Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.  Only I will remain.

From “Dune” by Frank Herbert

My route finding error led to a bit of an inauspicious start to my planned three day trek in Jubilee week last month.  I was intending to walk the southern half of the Cumbria Way from Ulverston to Borrowdale, or possibly to Keswick if time and energy permitted.  I had taken the train from Penrith to Ulverston.  The weather forecast was dire, as it has been for most of this dreadful summer, but the rain held off until I swung the train door open as we pulled in to the station.  It then started.  It was already mid afternoon and I had to get moving.  The plan was to get beyond Beacon Tarn by 8 ish for a wild camp. I reckoned this would be about 13 or 14 miles.  I shouldered my pack and headed for the start of the Way.

Because it was raining, and I was in the middle of a town, I left my map and guide book in my pack and relied on instinct.  How could instinct enable me to find my way across a town I had not visited for over 15 years? Well it couldn’t and didn’t. So I managed to get lost before I even started the walk proper, in the middle of a small town, by turning down the wrong side street.  I then did that nonchalant thing you do when there are a fair number of people about and you are lost.  This is usually on the hill, not in an urban setting but the principle is the same.  You know.  The “I have no intention of appearing to be a prat” thing.  But of course it actually makes you appear even more of a prat.  You pretend to know exactly what you are doing, that you are peering at the map and guidebook purely out of interest, and that the reason you have turned round was not because you had taken the wrong path or gone up the wrong street, but rather because you had fulfilled that very important task of, for example, looking at a particular view or stopping at an unusual shop that you had always wanted to visit that just happened to be a little off your intended route.  In my case it was a closed antique shop but it had a nice window display.

At least the shower had now passed and I then found the start of the Way and stopped to take a photograph or two.

                                    The start (or finish) of the Cumbria Way, Ulverston

My walking is almost entirely done in the hills, especially the hills of Cumbria.  The next 8 miles or so until I reached the open fell were to be a challenge for me.  Not because of the nature of the terrain, although I do find navigation over agricultural land more difficult than on the fell.  No, the challenge was not physical or navigational.  It was more in the mind.  It is to do with my entirely irrational** fear of large animals.  It really is a phobia, although some would simply call it pathetic cowardice.  Writing this blog post is, I hope, part of the cure - exposing the irrationality of my own fears in black and white to me and to others may help me combat it further in the future.

Since I was a small child I have been terrified of large animals with horns, teeth or hooves.  On the fells these can largely be avoided, although I sometimes reckon that certain sheep are looking pretty aggressively at me.  Those Herdwicks can be vicious little sods you know.  But the thought that there is no sturdy fence or high wall between me and bovines, equines, dragons or whatever can be enough to reduce me to a quivering, pathetic excuse of a man.  Indeed, a wall or fence does not always calm my fears.  They never look sufficiently strong or high to stop cows, bulls or horses getting to me.  Why, if a cow can jump over the moon, as I know for a fact that one once did, egged on by a cat with a fiddle, hey diddle diddle,  then a bit of barbed wire or dry stone is no real obstacle to prevent a determined attempt to bite / kick / stamp / trample / gore / eat me.  It is a well known fact that cows often jump fences to get to us walkers.

Yes, it is pathetic, but this fear of mine has ruined many a walk for many a year.  It has led me to changing my route, retreating from routes, embarrassing myself in front of small children and, worst of all, it has led to me avoiding completely walking in some wonderful places because of the high perceived risk of death or GBH being inflicted on me by a domesticated, four hoofed monster.

So doing this walk was partly about a middle aged bloke getting a grip, saying enough is enough, get real, get rational, take a deep breath, just do it and stop this phobia ruining your enjoyment of something you generally love doing.  That is why I chose this walk.  I knew that I would have several miles of farmers’ fields to pass through.  And in May in lowland Cumbria this would mean cows.  And possibly worse.  Bullocks.  And even scarier, the biggest, baddest, meanest of them all.  Bulls.  So I wanted to spin all my fears and phobias out of mind and body.

Looking back to Ulverston - it rained so much after this the camera had to be confined to my rucksack

The walk out of Ulverston is pretty straightforward and uncomplicated, but this did not stop me getting lost again at the very first stile, but that was soon sorted.  It was a mile or so in, just after Old Hall Farm, when I first had to confront my fears.  The largest, most ferocious looking cow you ever did see was lying down with its head right next to the path. Slowly chewing its cud.  Just like they do when they are about to attack.  It was all big and black and white and watching me with a menacing stare, but masking this as semi-disinterest.  A cunning specimen, this one.  My heart raced, my mouth went dry.  My pace perceptibly quickened.  I clocked the nearest gate; the height of the wall I would need to jump over to escape.  But I did not divert.  I forced myself to stay on the path.  I could have reached down and touched her if I had been brave enough.

I can only think that this particular cow was blind.  For I did not get bitten, gored, chased, butted or eaten. She did not call over all her mates to surround me and trample me to a bloody pulp. She just ignored me.  A poor excuse for an intimidating beast if ever there was one.

This was easy now.  I marched through field after field, through farm yards and on to Broughton Beck.  Doubts came on near this hamlet.  It was pouring down now; my map showed me that the next few miles were still through fields. There was a simple alternative route I could take, cheating by following roads to Gawthwaite, and thus with no chance of meeting cattle or horses.  No worry and no stress.  I took another deep breath and stuck to the plan and the way proper.

The feared attack happened somewhere between Broughton Beck and Knapperthaw.  As I crossed a field full of cows one pranced up to me, followed by her pals.   She danced around me, just a couple of feet away, literally running around me in circles, snorting.  I waved my trekking poles each time she advanced and made what I hoped were suitably scary comments in a manly voice.  I can’t write them down in a family blog but a lot of the words began with B and ended with ger or tard or itch and she kept her distance.  I edged backwards across the field, watching her whilst sticking determinedly to my route.  There was a line of stones crossing the field, the remnants of a long broken down dry stone wall.  It couldn’t stop her following me I thought, but it might be a psychological barrier she would not cross.  I made it over the stones, not taking my own eyes off her whilst avoiding her gaze.  She stopped. I let out my breath in relief and turned round and faced the right direction once more.  And there, right in front of me, not 6 feet away, was her husband.  The biggest, blackest bull you ever did see.

I could have cried.  I wanted to just lie down in the wet grass and let it do its worst, to get it over with quickly but painfully.  But I didn’t.  I walked passed it.  I walked on and climbed calmly over the stile and out of the field.  I continued on, through lots more fields of cows.  I got stalked by a herd of bullocks at one stage.  I also had to walk right next to the biggest horse in the world, far bigger than that Trojan thing ever was, and she had her foal with her and it’s a well known fact that animals turn into killers when they have their young with them.  Finally, I got to the open fell near Blawith.  I arrived at Beacon Tarn, tired and drained but pleased with myself.  I couldn’t care by then that the ground near the Tarn was far too marshy to find a decent camp spot.  I trekked on, shattered, more from nervous exhaustion, to a semi decent spot near the disused Torver reservoir and finally got the Akto up.  I was too stressed to eat the disgusting pretence for food that is a Travellunch dehydrated meal which was “cooked” and then largely discarded.  And I slept well knowing that for the next couple of days I was on known, familiar ground and there wouldn’t be a cow or horse in sight.  Or so I thought.

        This is possibly the worst example of pitching an Akto ever seen, but I was past caring

To be continued……

** Irrational fear?  A few days after getting back from the Cumbria Way my local paper reported that a walker had been trampled to death by cattle in Teesdale, County Durham.  And just as I thought I was conquering my phobia.