Walkin’, Chapter Seven.

Originally posted 23^rd June 2012.

Reading this back, I realise that I am making the Three Peaks sound like ‘Touching the Void’ or something that Andy McNab would write, but well, whatever.

I guess I didn’t really know what to expect prior to climbing the highest hills mountains in Scotland, England and Wales within 24 hours.  I certainly didn’t expect the most trying aspect of the entire ordeal to be the minibuses between the peaks.  Hell, I was even prepared for the shocking weather.

So, to set the scene; myself and 50-odd colleagues attempted the Three Peaks Challenge to support the Prince’s Trust charity.  If you still feel like donating, the link is here, however I must warn you…

…It wasn’t completed.  But read on!  As I have genuine reasons why.

Arrival in the motherland

Scotland never, ever disappoints me.  The people are always friendly and apart from the five quid pint of Guinness in the Glasgow Marriott, the drinks are always cheap.  I arrived north of the border on the Thursday night via Virgin Trains First Class, trying to eek as much comfort out of the forthcoming weekend as possible.  I raced one of the HR girls ‘Top Gear style’– train vs. plane – and spectacularly lost.  Despite leaving London at more or less the same time, the train perambulated into Glasgow Central a full hour after dear old Petra had checked into the hotel.  All 50 of us regrouped, grabbed some dinner (and Guinness) and turned in for the night.

Cue the last moments of comfort, courtesy of a Marriott bed.

Friday morning we all grabbed a decent cooked breakfast (with haggis, nom nom), had a quick briefing (I cannot remember exactly what we were told we needed to do / not do) and then filed into the minibuses.

The horrible, legroomless, crowded minibuses of doom, like Con Air, ferrying the condemned to a terrible, bleak griefhole.

A two-hour trip from Glasgow to Fort William at the foothills of Ben Nevis almost gave me DVT, and definitely gave me a bad mood.  Still, spirits were lifted at Fort William with a final ‘meal’ of McDonalds (could this be wrong?) and a quick march around Morrisons, stocking up on ‘supplies’.  Generally-speaking, the ‘supplies’ consisted of cashew nuts, dried apricots, Mars Bars, Snickers, CAR magazine and Scotch (wasn’t my idea).  Once regrouped, we headed to Glen Nevis so that some of the party could throw themselves off a bridge.  We then headed onto the Ben itself.

Ben Nevis

Ben Nevis was a right bastard; I don’t think I really gave much advance thought as to how high the mountain actually was.  Someone who previously completed the Three Peaks said to me that the first part of the UK’s highest peak was the most challenging aspect of the entire trip and they weren’t kidding.  Known as the ‘steps’, this part of the ascent was knackering, particularly when stuffed on Maccy D’s and Marriott breakfasts.  We all set out in good spirits; happily chatting away, sharing stories that mostly included words like “Whatever” and phrases like “a piece of piss”.  The weather was hot; and soon the voices died down as the group spread out in pace and concentrated on the increasingly apparent and very physical task at hand.

About halfway up there is a Loch, and due to a dip and a curve of the track it appeared like we had reached the summit.  It certainly felt like we had reached the summit.  I passed one of our group who was doubled over, gasping and stuffing a chocolate brownie into his mouth.

“You alright?”

“Have you seen how much we still have to climb?”

I looked up- I really hadn’t.

So we trekked on!  The nice weather gave way very suddenly to cloud, and then rain.  At first this was welcomed as I was sweating like a pig, however it gradually made the going slower and slower, and more slippery than ever before.  Still we climbed, and the grass gradually gave way to scree, rocks- and people turning back.  Ben Nevis is a very busy mountain, and the people retreating were muddled with others who had already got up to the summit.  Soon these were saying things like “About half hour to go” and “You’re almost there”.  The visibility was almost zero, so I’d take their word for it.

But just as you hit rock bottom, some arsehole throws you a shovel.  On 15 June 2012, it started to snow.  The summit plateau had effectively turned into a snowfield which was whimsical for about as long as it took me to stuff a Mars Bar into my big mouth.  Crawling on hands and knees in ankle-deep snow on a pretty steep hill with two lines of frozen snot on your nose is never a good look.

However, only 10 minutes beyond the snowfield we caught our first glimpse of the summit cairn, the refuge and the ruined observatory which attracts so many idiots people to Ben Nevis.  We had slowly split into mini-groups, however an hour or so before the summit I had picked up the pace and was kind of going it alone.  Nevertheless, we all rested together at the summit, drank water, ate more Mars bars (which were literally frozen solid) and tried to take pictures without wrecking our cameras in the relentlessly driving wind and sleet.

We had gravity on our side for the descent; and the ever-improving weather as sea-level approached made for good spirits and liberal consumption of Scotch.  However, I soon discovered that gravity is a bitch- the strain on my knees got worse and worse and at least three people in the group hurt their legs on the slippery steps, effectively ending their challenge.  At around 9pm – five hours after departure – I made it back to the minibus.

What a f**king treat that was.

Scafell Pike

Prior to starting Ben Nevis, the self-styled leader of the expedition stated that those who find it a ball-ache will bypass Scafell Pike and head straight to Wales for an early start up Snowdon- considered to be the easiest of the three peaks.  By contrast, Scafell is widely acknowledged as the hardest; despite being the lowest of the three mountains.  Upon arrival, all I could say was that it was certainly the wettest.

Of course ‘arrival’ suggests a journey, and what a journey it was.  After changing into dry clothes and socks in Scotland, the minibus began a 7-hour overnight drive to the Lake District.  Our driver was a trooper – he had climbed the Ben as well – and if we were feeling destroyed then god knows what he was experiencing.

Cue plenty of rest breaks to relieve cramped legs, sore necks and hunger.

We arrived at the foot of Scafell at about 4am, 12 hours into the challenge.  The place was absolutely sodden.  I have gotten less wet standing in the shower in my London apartment.  I am not sure how many people attempted Scafell but I am sure many didn’t, or were shepherded straight to Wales.  The five minibuses had certainly been depleted somewhat.

Well Scafell couldn’t even be visually assessed; such was the weather, so we just went for it.  At the briefing in Scotland, as I said, I didn’t remember much but I did recall one thing being mentioned;

“Do not, under any circumstances climb Scafell unless you are accompanied by someone who has done it before”.

My little Scafell subgroup was given two experienced individuals, however they were so experienced they marched off at a pace that I couldn’t possibly keep up with, so that was the end of that.  The path ended after what seemed like 30 yards and we found ourselves in a dreary field, gradually sloping up to an invisible apex.  All I could think of was the immortal Fast Show line;

“What if you get stuck down a hole?  In the fog.  In the middle of the night.  WITH AN OWL??!!”