New Heights of Incompetence

Happy chappy on Kinder Edge

When did it all go so horribly wrong? I think it started the moment I thought I was going blind.

I should have known better. The weather forecast for the next fortnight had looked reasonable when I had suggested a wild camp to Geoff.  Despite him being known for having a modicum of common sense he agreed.  Weather forecasts always gradually get worse when I plan to be in the hills, and being an observant sort of chap I couldn't help but notice, a week or so later, as I drove along the M67 near Manchester, that the outside lane was closed because it was full of snow and that my windscreen wipers were working overtime to keep the sleet off the windscreen. If I had been planning to go out on my own I could have turned round and headed home to the log burner. But Geoff was waiting for me, desperate for my company.  I'd show him. I'm no wimp. Well I could at least try to fool him.

So after the Crowther's had kindly provided me with lunch, and Pebbles the Boxer had tried to kill me with love,  Geoff and I set out for a shortish afternoon walk, heading in the direction of Kinder Downfall. The walking was pleasant, if you ignored the slippery, oozy mud that we were sliding through. Every step left me feeling I was about to go A over T.  But I didn't.

We arrived at the spot where Geoff had planned to camp, and pretty pleasant it was too, with excellent views of the Downfall, through the gloom and mist.  More snow was clearly imminent, and I raced to pitch Daphne, the Z Packs Duplex, behind a large lump of gritstone.  Geoff was putting up his tent a few yards away, with no fuss and achieving a lovely taught pitch.  Whilst he was busy my mind went walkabout.  I had earlier jumped at his suggestion of me taking the spot behind the boulder, without realising it was one of those places that seemed almost horizontal at the time it was chosen, but one which would gradually tip towards the vertical, and would leave me and my sleeping mat in a heap at one end of the tent every few minutes throughout the night. But that was for later.

Daphne was almost up when I realised that the position of the boulder would stop me getting in a couple of key guy lines. Which is pretty incompetent. I should have taken the poor girl down and started again from scratch, but Geoff might have seen. A man has his reputation to consider. Couldn't have sniggering coming from the next tent, could I? So I fiddled around with the two trekking poles, both of which are needed to support Daphne. I released the flicklock on one of the poles so I could jiggle it into a new position, and a couple of pegs and guys were also moved. I then re-tensioned the pole. But I couldn't understand why Daphne looked so forlorn when she was up, and why the doors (no zips to save weight) did not overlap as they were so cunningly designed to do.  It was only the following morning that I realised that after that particular bit of faffing with guys and poles I had set one trekking pole 10 cm lower than the other.  Her normal graceful lines were missing. She looked a sorry mess.

Daphne the Z Packs Duplex looking almost as if she had been pitched correctly

I got my gear into the tent as the sleet and snow arrived. As I went to untie my boots to follow the gear into the dry everything became a blur. Literally. I was going blind!  What was happening? Was I having a stroke, perhaps, after all the stress and effort of the last few minutes? I put my hand down to steady myself and then felt one of the lenses from my spectacles lying on the ground. So I was not going blind, which was something of a relief. My next thought was to wonder how I would survive the following few hours to bedtime in a tiny tent, unable to read my book. Then I remembered I had a 70 mile drive the following day, impossible without glasses. "Oh fiddlesticks", I said. After a pathetic conversation with Geoff, he came to the rescue with some insulating tape and repaired them for me. He was then my hero - but in a very manly sort of way, obviously.

You'd never guess from this picture that she was pitched on a 45 degree slope. Or so it felt at 2.00am

There being no streams I walked back down to Mermaid Pool which we had passed earlier and collected the dirtiest water I had ever had to use on the hill. But the Sawyer filter would sort it. And it did. At first. I filtered a mugful. I got out the Sidewinder and meths burner. My Torjet lighter then gave up the ghost. No problem. I'm not incompetent. I carry a spare lighter. That didn't work either. Box of matches? Of course. I was a Boy Scout. Always prepared. I had those as well. And they were special waterproof matches, bought and brought for a rainy day.

Waterproof but not windproof note. As you will be aware, matches blow out when it's windy.  After much "fiddlesticking", and about half an hour later, I had a cup of hot soup. Now for the dehydrated meal. Filter some more water. No chance. Nothing was getting through the Sawyer, no matter how hard I squeezed. I'd backwashed it and tested it before setting out. And now it was next to useless. "Fiddlesticks", said I, yet again.  I had about 600ml of tap water from home with me. I could go and ask Geoff for use of his super doopa, very posh MSR filter. A filter that works. But no, I thought, I can survive such a minor calamity for one night. I would make up the dehydrated meal with the tap water, and it would leave just enough for a brew in the morning.  I could forgo the Bird's Instant Custard I had planned for pudding, and could also miss the breakfast porridge.  I had chocolate and cereal bars instead.

I gave the Torjet a good talking to and it came back to life. Just. As I applied its feeble flame to the meths burner I knocked the pan of precious water over and lost half of it. I had another bout of saying fiddlesticks. Mountain House food can be awful at the best of times. I forced it down, only partially re-hydrated through not adding enough water. I took a slug of scotch from the hip flask. I thought of putting my boots on and taking some whisky over to Geoff. Then I thought "sod that, it's cold and horrid out there" and had another slug to cheer myself. It failed. I got out the Kindle. I'm currently reading Les Miserables by Victor Hugo.  All I can say is that, as I lay there reading, I was thinking that those poverty stricken Les Miserables had it cushy compared to spending a night on a hillside with a knackered Sawyer water filter and two useless lighters.

The morning after: Geoff and Islay on Kinder Edge

Geoff on Kinder Edge

The good thing about being dehydrated is that I did not have to make use of Mr P Bottle very much in the night, and could have slept surprisingly well. Every half hour or so, however, I had to do that thing you do when you do not have a level pitch. You know the one. You gradually slide in your sleeping bag into a heap at the bottom of the tent. You are still on your sleeping mat, but three feet of it is climbing up the lower wall of the tent. You grasp the top edge of the mat. To move it you have to get all your weight off it. You don't want to roll on to the cold, hard floor of the tent. So you do this sort of horizontal leap about three inches into the air, getting all your weight off the mat, and in that split second before you land you tug the mat up the tent. You then drift off to sleep and repeat the process every 30 minutes for the next 9 hours.

I'm not that resilient these days, and can let small mishaps get me down, but as dawn dawned it dawned on me that the meths and the Torjets would light better if they were warm, so I put them into my sleeping bag and managed to brew up twice with the remaining water. And amazingly, as so often is the case, all became well with the world. Geoff came over to inspect Daphne. He was polite enough not to laugh, and almost seemed to believe me when I sang her praises and explained that she was simply having an off day and did not always look like that.

Out of the clag at Edale Cross looking back towards Kinder

Islay

Then we packed up and headed up a steepy bit into the clag and snow flurries. This steepy section felt remarkably easy, all things considered, which was a very good thing suggesting that I might be getting slightly fitter, and onto Kinder Edge, along to the Downfall, on to Kinder Low and then we dropped down to Edale Cross and back to the Crowther's. Most enjoyable. Islay had a lovely time. Geoff enjoyed himself. I think. And so did I. It's amazing how quickly you can forget the discomfort and set backs when the scenery and company are good. And to cap it all when we got back to his place the hero produced bacon. A whole frying pan full of it. And bread. And fresh coffee. And what more could a man want after such a day and night?

TGOC 2014 Day 3: What was that whizzing passed? That was your life mate.

Day 3: Route

Sunday 11 May, 21km, 388 metres climbed, 7 hours 15 mins

The Allt na Muic, just beyond my camping spot

I wake up early. At home or in a hotel or in a tent.  Today was no exception.  Well before 5.00am. I do not actually start walking early, rather I potter around, if one can potter around in a single person tent.  Pottering around in such circumstances means slowly brewing up, usually a couple of times,  getting sleeping bag clothes off, and walking clothes on, making porridge and brewing up again, eating a cereal bar and, of course, taking the early morning trip with the MSR Blizzard to do what a man has to do.

Most of the copulating ants had now, it seemed, left for wherever flying ants go when they are not pestering humans.  Presumably their lust was now satiated and, no doubt, their mission to promulgate their species successful.

I know that looks like a path but it didn't look like one when I was walking down here.

A nice spot for a break by the Allt na Muic

I was walking by 8.15am. I first blundered through the heather to the deer fence at the edge of the forest, and then down hill between the Allt na Muic and the forest.  Unsurprisingly, the OS’s idea of a path, which should have materialised at the deer fence according to the 1:50k map, seemed to be at odds with how a dictionary would describe such a feature, for I saw little signs of one until much further down. The ground was pretty wet underfoot but not too difficult. Towards the bottom of the hill I was pleased to find Hugh and Barbara again, breakfasting at a pleasant spot by the stream, and the sun appeared to be winning its battle with the clouds at this point. We walked together for most of the rest of the day, first plodding along the road to Torgyle Bridge where we lunched at a picnic table in heavy rain shower, with other Challengers materialising here for the pull over the hill to Fort Augustus.

On the way to Fort Augustus

It is very easy walking from Torgyle Bridge to Fort Augustus, first on forestry tracks and then on awful new tracks built to allow the construction of the massive replacement pylons and power lines.  I am afraid that whilst I make use of these tracks I also resent the ruination of the landscape that they cause. I guess that is a form of hypocrisy but that’s how it is. I could, of course, have planned a different route to avoid this area, but that wouldn't have meant that the countryside would have been any less spoilt. The way, though, was redeemed by the last kilometre through Jenkins Park which is a pretty way in to the town.  I was at Fort Augustus by half three, quite early for the B and B, so I forced myself into The Bothy pub and bravely sank a couple of pints of Guinness.

Welcome Sight

Hugh, Barbara and I ate in The Bothy later.  Allen and Fran were there too, Fran with a pair of shiny new boots bought from the gift shop, and gradually more Challengers arrived, including John Woolston, who I had shared Day 3 with on the 2013 Challenge. It seemed like only yesterday.  Time certainly is “the subtle thief of youth”, as that guy Milton banged on about back in 1632 when he was just 23 years of age.

Fort Augustus

I would be happy to accept an offer of sponsorship from Guinness.  If their marketing director would like to contact me.....

TGOC 2014 Day 2: Bogs, boots, lubricants and sex crazed inverterbrates

Day 2: Route

Saturday 10 May, 18.4 km, 667 metres, 7 hours 45 minutes

Weather:  Pretty wet, drying up in the afternoon.  Sort of.

View from the Scarp (taken on the previous evening)

One of the less than pleasurable aspects of wild camping is the early morning walk with the MSR Blizzard stake, with the improvised duct tape handle, to a place remote from other tents and water courses for a man to do what a man has to do. Not too bad on a dry day, it is most unpleasant when it is raining.  So I can tell you that having wandered off from my tent at 5.50am in the dry to undertake aforementioned euphemism I felt pretty smug 15 minutes later as I lay back in my sleeping bag with a brew and it started to tip it down. 

 

Loch Affric

It continued to rain throughout the morning, which was no surprise, this being Scotland in May and Challengers all along the north west of the country were just getting on with it.  I headed off along the track towards Loch Affric, eventually catching up with Fran and Allen near the track that turns away from the Loch and heads up towards Cougie. I only caught up with them because they were repairing Fran's boots again.  I walked with them through an increasingly unpleasant, steep, wet and muddy excuse of a path to the main track that heads to Cougie.

Allen scoured the track for old bits of wire and cable ties to add to his boot repair kit for Fran.  We stopped near Cougie for lunch.  After getting very fed up of trail mix and too many cereal bars on previous backpacks I have started to buy wraps for lunch and spread these with Primula Cheese.  This is far more satisfying.  I am also packing my mug so that it is more accessible to encourage me to drink more water when passing burns.  It’s a new Evernew mug, bought just before the off.  It did make an annoying grating sound whenever I unfolded the handles but I found that a tiny squirt of Primula down the titanium channel that holds them in place sorted this.

 

Above Cougie

We followed a track up the hill out of Cougie.  It disappeared long before the Ordnance Survey said that it should, and despite the use of GPS to check we were on this “path” we waded through heather and bog for a goodly bit ie a couple of hours or so.  I can only think that the OS map makers, who now use satellite imagery to plot features such as paths, were using the same satellite that had told master blogger Alan Sloman that there was a brilliant wild camp in the middle of a Cumbrian wasteland on the Pre-Walk Daunder in April. Not that I’m bitter, you understand.

I had planned to camp by the Allt na Muic and not far from the grid reference given on my route plan I did see a pretty reasonable spot.  Allen wanted to “push on for a bit” so I was deprived of his and Fran's excellent company and settled down to a wild camp alone – the only time on this Challenge when my tent was on its own.

I spent an interesting evening.  I foolishly left my tent door open as I went for a short wander to the burn for water and when I returned it was filled with large numbers of flying ants who, it seemed had needed to “get a room”.  They were hell bent on using the Scarp for immoral purposes, and despite shooing as many of them as possible away I had to lie in my sleeping bag watching the remaining swarm with voyeuristic fascination as they cavorted and copulated on the sides of my inner tent until tiredness saw me drift to the land of nod.

Wild camp pitch near the Allt na Muic

Day 1 of a walk and a wild camp in the North Western Fells…with a bit of a rant about some mountain bikers with large tattoos and even larger biceps and a dog walker with neither

A life on the ocean wave: Derwent Water

Distance: A very modest 8km

Height: 761m climbed, 287m descended

Wainwright Count: 3

A fun and relaxing way to begin a walk in the Lakes is to take a ferry to your start point.  And this is what I did last Wednesday, catching the 10.30am anti-clockwise boat on Derwent Water from Keswick to Hawse End.  Excellent value for £3.85.

The weather was still, mild and claggy, and the outside seats on the ferry were damp from the last shower but I was happy to put up with wet backside syndrome to benefit from the lovely views to Derwent Isle and the hills all around.  After a quick 15 minutes of nautical life, the captain dropped anchor off the Hawse End Pier and I disembarked and headed off up Cat Bells.

Cat Bells from the launch - the top is just in the cloud

Cat Bells is one of the most photographed hills in the Lakes, and it often features in books of walking routes as an ideal and easy mountain for children.  “Anyone can climb it”, I read the other day.  I actually think that the image given by its picturesque name is misleading, certainly when approached from Hawse End.  No, of course it’s not hard, but it isn’t a walk in the park and there are a couple of steep scrambly sections so it’s not as gentle as often implied.  It does boast the most glorious views back over Derwent Water, the view being one of the Lakes at their charming and beguiling best.

Derwent Water from Cat Bells

With my pack and my lack of hill fitness it was 70 minutes to the top.  And here I met the three mountain bikers who had been carrying their bikes up the hill in front of me, cycling on the easier stretches. Now, mountain bikes are great.  I have dabbled in the past, in a very minor way.  But they are only great in the right place.  At the risk of winding up any mountain bikers reading this, my view is that in the hills a single mountain bike trip will cause far more erosion than a walker covering the same route, unless the route is all on bed rock.  The surface area of the bike wheels touching the ground is less than a hiker’s boot and the wheel is constantly in touch with the ground, combining weight of bike and rider. So that means more erosion.  No doubt many will disagree, but that’s free speech for you!  So to me the ideal place for mountain bikes is forest trails and the like, of which there are plenty in the Lakes.

One thing is certain. Bikes can only legally use public bridleways, not public footpaths.  And this trio were not on a bridleway so they shouldn’t have been there anyway.  Now as I am a grumpy and pompous old git I decided to say something to them about this, that was until I caught up with them at the top.  This is where cowardice got the better of me.  Let me describe their arms.  They had biceps.  Not your ordinary office worker biceps, I mean the sorts you see if you are foolish enough ever to visit a back street gym.  And on top of their biceps they had another layer of biceps.  And on top of their second layer of biceps they had tattoos.  Not tattoos of the names of their wives and children.  Skulls and the like.  And names that may well have been those of pit bull dogs.  Furthermore, they all had stubble on their faces.  Not a clean shave amongst them.  So I meekly said “hello, lovely day so far, hope it keeps dry” and they grunted at me, which I took for agreement, then they did some showing off type stunts on their bikes and took photos and then they headed on down the public footpath at high speed, no doubt scaring the life out of poor Mrs Tiggy Winkle, who, as you know, lives just below Cat Bells.

I am sure they were very nice gentlemen really

 

From Cat Bells to Maiden Moor

I dropped down to the col known as Hause Gate where the first few drops of rain hit me.  Soon after that the old Berghaus Paclite rain gear was on, jacket and trousers.  I don’t often bang on about gear in this blog but I may do a post about various kit related items soon, and will mention Paclite, mainly because it gets a bad press by those ‘in the know’, whereas I am perfectly happy with it.

A short detour from the main path took me up to Bull Crag and then to the top of Maiden Moor.  From here it was on through the clag and heavy rain to the summit of High Spy, my third ‘Wainwright’ of the day.  It wasn’t driving rain as there was no wind, but it was pretty torrential for all that.

 

Top of High Spy: A fine cairn

As I descended from High Spy I came across a Berghaus pack raincover on the ground.  I wondered whether to pick it up and keep it (ie steal it), salving my conscience with the excuse that it was now just litter, or whether I should leave it in case anyone came back for it.  Conscience was getting the better of me, not least because I didn’t need another pack cover.  As I debated this serious moral dilemma, poking at it with one of my poles, I saw a chap about 50 metres below me picking up another pack cover.  I shouted down that I, too, had found one.  He replied that they were both his, that he and his wife had lost them, and he was walking back to find them.  Now to paraphrase Oscar Wilde, “to lose one packcover may be regarded as misfortune; but to lose two starts to look like carelessness”, but I kept this thought to myself, and instead talked to him, as he arrived, about his dog, a two year old border collie which was racing up and down the hill.  Having just acquired hyperpup I am interested in collies.

“How long have you been letting her off the lead in the hills”, I asked.

“Only since yesterday”, he replied, “she chased sheep until then”.  So she stopped chasing sheep all of a sudden like, I wondered.

“Now she just chases after people and bites at their boots”, he added.  That’s ok then.  Off you go girl. Get off my boots.

It is a sharpish drop down to Dale Head Tarn, not one of the finest tarns in the Lakes.  I had planned to wild camp here, but it was pretty marshy and I didn’t fancy the drier small walled enclosure which was right next to the path. So I headed up over rough moorland to Launchy Tarn.  The rain was stopping now, and not far from this small, peaty pool I found a dry island with a lovely level pitch, no hummocks or heather, and with a good stream just 10 minutes away.  It could have been very exposed in wind but it was still calm, so it was up with the Tarp Tent Scarp 1 for the first time for real.  And it seems to be a cracker of a shelter, so more about that at another time.  Then it was a lazy remainder of the afternoon, brewing up, sorting stuff, sitting on a rock contemplating the peace and reading until meal time.  If you ever wild camp you will know the sort of thing.

Tarp Tent Scarp 1 near Launchy Tarn

The view downwards from my tent - Dale Head Tarn just visible left centre

Dinner was a ‘Cup a Soup’ followed by a Mountain House Chicken Korma, or so the packet claimed.  It actually wasn’t too bad, but why do the instructions always tell you to add more water than needed so you end up with more soup?  Bird’s instant semolina for pudding, followed by hot chocolate and a Milky Way and bed and the Kindle and the Famous Grouse and a really good night’s sleep.

Stats of the walk from my Active 10 Sat Nav:

Time taken: 294 days 7 hours

Distance covered: 148km

Average speed whilst moving: 48 km per hour.

Note to myself: Reset trip log before using Active 10 in future.

TGO Challenge 2013 Day 6: Stunning Wild Camp

The sixth day of my Challenge was very short and simple.  Good to have a rest after my long walk of the previous day.

I simply went from Newtonmore to Kingussie.  I walked part of this short distance with Simon Hutchinson and Iain Robertson, who I “knew” through Twitter.  They, too, were on a lowish level route but were piling on the miles.

On arrival I was back on my proper route and on schedule, and felt good and ready for the rest of the Challenge.  The weather was better than fair, with just one light shower whilst I walked, and it was great to see James Boulter again in Kingussie, hobbling somewhat on his damaged ankle, but determined to carry on, after an additional rest day on the following day.  We had a good meal in the Tipsy Laird that evening, along with Graham (Crowder?) and his wife.

Given the short day I will not bother to write anymore, but my superb wild camp that evening in pine woods just near an old bothy, not far from Newtonmore is worth a photo or two.  I am pleased with the picture of the wild camp as it shows clearly some of the ultralightweight gear I was carrying, and some of the latest quick drying clothing from one of our specialist British manufacturers.

Wild camp near Newtonmore Bothy - note my ultralight cooking set up, water system and quick drying gilet

 


The Newtonmore Bothy - one of the oldest in Scotland (located in the grounds of the excellent and free folk museum)