What really happened in the hills

The Three Peaks Challenge, September 2013

A bit of a marmalade revival so I've got somewhere to share the write up of my latest adventure. For general background, see my story on http://www.justgiving.com/Amy-Wackett

The Three Peaks is seen as a ‘well trodden’ very achievable challenge. And it is, but as some of our group (me plus a group from a law firm that supports Aspire) discovered, it isn’t quite a walk in the park. On top of the walking, there is also the sleep deprivation, weather conditions, travel sickness (hurtling around the winding Lake District roads will turn even the strongest of stomachs) and a good few hours of walking in darkness.

Ahead of the challenge, we spent a night (reminiscent of a year 7 residential) at a Welsh youth hostel close to the foot of Snowdon. Then, well stocked up with toast, radioactive jam and individually wrapped weetabix, we set off in the pouring rain up the Pyg Track via the Miners Track. It was pretty standard Wales, with the very occasional rain let-up and brief opportunity to take my hood down and get some relief from the rustling.

Unable to tell whether the rain had seeped through all the Gortex, or it was just cold against my skin, I powered on, determined to catch up with the speedy guys at the front. Whilst I could match their pace from a distance, actually reaching them became futile so I soothed my competitive side by remaining in the top third.

Our summit was brief. It was cold, I'd foolishly neglected to put gloves on, and you couldn't see a damn thing. So back down again, gloves perched on the ends of my claw hands until they loosened up enough to get my fingers in to the... fingers.
 

Down and down, it felt twice as far as up. I found someone who just about matched my pace, but we'd completely lost track of who was ahead of us. We did pass a couple still on their way up, which was a bit a concern if we were planning to complete the challenge in 24 hours. I finished in 3 hours 20 for that one, including some extended stops at the beginning, before attempts to stay together were abandoned. It turns out that only two had been ahead of us! 

A minibus, a dry top and socks, instant coffee and a hot sandwich and I was a new woman. Adorned with hanging wet stuff, the minibus gradually filled up with group members as my body heat returned. We set off for the Lakes rather late- about 2 hours behind schedule; damp and sleepy. The roller coaster ride through the winding Lake District lanes was a bit if a wake up call, and made for some slightly green faces.

When we finally piled out of the buses, it was starting to get dark. Despite severe warnings against it, we faffed extensively. The public toilets were closed, walking poles were required and needed some adjusting. By the time we set off we caught only a glimpse of the view behind before we step-stoned across a river and focused on the ascent.

Visibility was very low by the time I relented and switched on my head torch. Some steep climbs and wet rock scrambles later, we were on the loose rubble that surrounds Scafell's summit. It must have been around 10pm by this point and I'd reached that strange, imaginative state when you've been in your own head a bit too much.

"Hey, this is what it would be like to walk on gravel if you were really really tiny", and so on.

We were met by two men who had lost the other two in their party but were assured that the lost pair had phone signal and were not in danger. Eyes and ears open as much as they could be in those conditions to listen out for them.

A quick group shot at the summit, lit by head torches and rain reflections, and we headed back down, staying as a group so as not to rack up the missing persons count. There was no sign of the Two, but we got word that Mountain Rescue were on the way up (one of the guides being ex Mountain Rescue and one being current). 

Meeting a very happy search and rescue dog was a highlight, as was having a stand off with a Scafell mouse that clearly couldn't see past my head torch to establish that I was something to run away from.

An article later turned up that detailed the not-so-dramatic rescue that night... http://www.grough.co.uk/magazine/2013/09/09/lost-scafell-pike-walkers-failures-lead-to-frustrating-six-hour-rescue 

Now, sleeping on a minibus is not ideal. Neither is finishing your second mountain climb at midnight with no epic pub meal to fill your boots, or shower, or even reclining seat. But I was elated from the dark mountain adventure (and being the fastest Scafell climber!) and endured the six bumpy hours under a fleece blanket.

 
Amazingly awake at 5 or 6, or whatever it was, it was a case of cramming in some fruit/nuts/whatever else was around, toggling up and heading off from the car park at Glen Nevis just as it was getting light. Our final climb was relatively uneventful but equally rain-free and we were rewarded with a stunning view for most of the way up before hitting the clouds, not before spotting a few ptarmigans (I'd first casually dismissed them us funny looking mountain pigeons until the people behind me started getting excited).

After about three quarters of the distance, the group had spread out so much that our guide, Zac, waited to gather members in the middle and three of us continued to the cloud covered summit alone.  

"Don't fall off the North Face!" Zac called.

When we reached it after a couple more steep climbs, it's sharp drop, obscured by cloud, was tantalising. I have to go back and see that view on a clear day...

The barren, rocky summit was eery in the cloud. Stone constructions loomed out of the white mist, each cairn appeared to float in to sight until we found the highest point.

It was cold up there after a very warm, sunny climb. Fleeces, gloves and hats on, chocolate consumed and we were off back down. Our speediest member decided to run it, and quickly disappeared leaving Phil (seasoned hill walker and bird enthusiast) and I to skip, hop and jog our way over the rocky 'path'. After an hour or so, every impact was bone shaking. Ben Nevis had been making me increasingly aware of my own skeleton as the aches seemed to reveal the position of every bone from hips down.

The descent seemed to go on for ever. More and more walkers, many very inappropriately dressed, were heading up, giving as admiring looks for being so far ahead so early. And as we got closer to the end, it felt further and further, pain mounting in my toes, ankles hips, shoulders and rucksack chafe points.

Some ran the last bit but I couldn't even manage a jog. It's not quite the glorious finish line of the London Triathlon, a couple of blokes with a minibus, but it was better- personal, like they were with us all the way. A big congratulatory hug from driver Simon, a freshen up and change of clothes in the visitor centre toilets. Fatigue, relief, elation. 

People arrived in quick succession. Having missed our Scottish breakfast, the only option to re-fuel was a McDonalds take away, after which I suddenly couldn't keep my eyes open.

It's a strange, sleepy end to such a challenge. Everyone anxious to get home (and Glasgow is a long way from it). The exhaustion hit hard and didn't really let up for three days.

So I'm proud to say that my individual times were well within the required 14 hours to qualify. I can cross two more mountains off the list (although Ben Nevis will need a re-match on a clear day).

Thank you all for the support, it's what made the challenge happen, and will make it possible for someone with a spinal cord injury to buy vital equipment to give them their independence back.

And I'm on to the half marathon, my biggest challenge yet. Fuelled by coconut water and Swedish House Mafia, training is going well. Just over a week to go. £250 still to raise. It's not over yet!

If you'd like to support me, I'll be massively grateful, and I promise that if I do a similar write up of the half marathon, it won't be nearly as long.

Donate online at: http://www.justgiving.com/Amy-Wackett

A wee dram for an icicle whip

The familiar but infuriating sensation of over-heating due to a combination of physical exertion and over-enthusiastic layering against the cold. Except this is no train, and it's not crowds of people that are preventing layer shedding. Nope, it's the arctic (sub arctic?) conditions of a Scottish mountain.

Now, Scottish mountains sound tame. Green, heathery, a bit damp.

But no! They're not like that! They're an extreme, danger fuelled onslaught of snow, ice, thick walls of white blizzard, bitey 40 - 50mph winds and very hurty bits of exposed skin. And it's not worth the pain of trying to de-layer if you get a bit hot. Just stand still for 5 minutes and the feeling will disappear from your toes and the various technical fleeces, jackets and thermals start clinging desperately to that excess heat as it gets eaten by an icy gust.

Something hard and sting-y whips me in the face and I realise it's a lock of my own hair that's formed in to an icicle. One of my fellow adventurers points out that little icicles have also formed on my eyelashes within seconds of removing my goggles.

It's just white as far as you can see, and the odd blast completely engulfs my companions in blizzard so that they disappear. The steep slope up is all but a solid sheet of ice, only navigable by the wonder that is crampons. I'm like some sort of ice spider, marching on regardless over all manner of snow, ice and slippery rock. My ascent of Cairn Gorm mountain is hugely aided by the fierce winds being behind me, so it actually feels like a giant hand on my lower back driving me upwards.

The summit is a plateau of brutal winds, next to no visibility and more ice onslaught. But it's brilliant! I'm fairly sure that at some point we'd actually wandered in the the Arctic. It was just like those documentaries of people doing mad arctic treks. I wasn't going to expose my camera phone to those conditions, let alone take my hand out of my cosy double glove combination. But luckily, someone else did.

I managed a couple lower down, out of the wind:

That was a good NYE walk. Until that point, I'd thought there was a similar walk the day before when the weather was even worse but, on paper, it was actually only a up a ski slope.

The picture above is at the top of a red run slope that we proceeded to slide down. Serious fun. It was all in the name of learning some 'winter skills'.

This was an informal trip with my new mountaineering club. A four-day trip over the New Year break to seek winter climbing and a good old Scottish Hogmanay. A couple of us were new to the winter stuff and getting used to the equipment and conditions. Someone had referred to us as 'Team Training'. I refer to us as 'Team Awesome.'

In the foreground there is Mel, who was militant about post adventure tea (and medals) BEFORE ANYONE HAS A SHOWER. And quite rightly. A good re-group and catch up over builder's tea and gnarly climber's cake (the climbing is gnarly, not the cake) as we regaled each other with tales of the death defying adventures of the day.

Then further tales and nonsense in the little bar that was trying very hard to be some sort of alpine apres ski venue but in a sort of remote, hearty Scottish way. Everyone there was highly amused by the idea of a London mountaineering club. The landlord there was a small, friendly and well-seasoned winter climber/ ski mountaineer. He gave me a sample of one of the local beers that sited elderflower as one of the flavours.
"I like it." I said with enthusiasm, "You can really taste the elderflower!"
"Really? No-one has ever said that before..."

Ha. That's right, I can be a hardcore snow spider, survive the arctic and still come down and appreciate the elderflower notes in a Scottish pint.

I didn't get as far as doing a proper climb. The only day the conditions were up to it was New Years Day and I wasn't getting up at 7am to go out with the big boys after a night of apres mountain, Scottish tavern, terrible fireworks, better fireworks, whiskey (a 'wee dram' from a man in a kilt. It was anything but wee), dancing (wii dancing) and a late night youth hostel feast of anything we could cobble together.

Instead I opted for a little new year's walk, which turned in to a bit of an epic walk involving forest, snowy mountain, boggy mountain side and iced over boggy mountain plateau, which I imagined was a lot like how it would feel to walk on a creme brulee.

So some good new year views; hangover cured after the first summit and a solid Scrabble win later on over ginger cake and custard. I got even closer to going skiing than I did last year; experienced the unique sensation of frozen crispy waterproof jacket, ate my body weight in fried stuff and went tobogganing in a survival bag. Excellent start.

There's no place like...

I'm sitting in a little French cafe on Upper Street, Islington, London on an almost icy cold but bright and crispy Saturday with the genius invention that's the Flat White. On the next table there's a bespectacled slim arty man in a striped jumper reading a book (not a Kindle) that's no doubt excruciatingly arty and cool. When I'm on Upper Street, it's always sunny and I want to spend my life cycling up and down wearing an expensive coat and with a bouquet of flowers and probably some patisserie in my bike basket, stopping off for coffees and novel reading, or to buy things that are then wrapped in pretty paper. And I look around at that the other people (all ridiculously good looking and well dressed) and wonder "is this actually your life, or are you just weekend-pretending like me?"

In case you can't picture my Saturday, it's pretty much like this:

This is a distant dream on Monday morning's when I drag myself out in the dark and power walk to the train station where a completely jam packed train pulls up. "I'll never get in that" you think, but the insistent whistle blows, the doors give their taunting beeping noise and you have to get in it! So you launch yourself at the wall of people filling the carriage and then squeeze right up to stop any bits of coat or bag stopping the doors and you're in! Doors clearing all winter wear and accessories has the feeling of clearing a hurdle the height of your shoulder. My relief is quickly shattered, however, when I realise I'm wedged between three armpits, and the Metro I was looking forward to reading is now stuck to the side of my face. Then if it's raining you've got the issue of AGH WET UMBRELLA LEG! Oh and I walked very briskly to make the train and wore a lot of layers because it's bloody freezing outside and now I'm sweating in the searing heat of a prison of wool coat, scarf, armpits and train.

Step out of the moment for a second and there you are, sardined with a bunch of strangers in a game of: "Don't catch anyone's eye! Agh I just caught someones eye! Quick - dart eyes to one side and then keep looking around as if I've been doing that the whole time and then it will look like one of the places I stopped moving my eyes happened to be looking at your eyes. Good save."

Passing that many people every day, I can't believe nothing very noteworthy has happened yet. My bike wheel got stolen once, the lady that hands out Time Out magazine at West Hampstead station has a little song about it (that gets resolutely stuck in my head for a couple of days - Free Time Out! Free Time Out!) and sometimes people apologise for stepping on me, and sometimes they don't. When faced with that many people, no-one sees 'people' any more. Everyone zips themselves up in a little bubble of self absorption, aided by smartphone/book/paper/ipod. When I'm not in my bubble, I basically end up staring. If you are going to people watch on a train, well you just have to be okay with being a starer. No panicked eye-darting, unless you land on someone scary; then it's all about the shoes, invisible lint on the trousers and other such 'awkward social situation' safety nets.

So Marmalade had lost it's way a bit among the total assault on the mind, body and senses that was changing jobs and relocating but it's back, with the London chapter, an adventure to the Scottish Highlands, and the promise of a SE Asia expedition. Maybe even a mash up of some previous draft posts from the past few months. For now, it's back to my Saturday fantasy.