Chapter 31

RIVER DEEP MOUNTAIN HIGH

Part Three:  ‘I’m fine just here, thanks.'

Around two decades ago my brain decided it was time to realign itself.  A desire to seek out thrills and scary moments was suddenly replaced by a healthy caution that lowered the excitement threshold and placed much more of a priority on enjoying the view, or watching others take the bigger risks.  The need for a challenge was as strong as ever but I seemed to be able to satisfy this requirement by just going longer, higher or quicker and skipping out on the parts that involved any potential ‘OH, NO!  SHIT!‘ moments.

I blame the boys.  Inevitably Stuart’s arrival in 1992, followed two years later by Murray, caused a reappraisal of what we were able to do and seemed to coincide with a more cautious approach to activities.  Again, as mentioned in Part One, don’t get the impression I’m some sort of gung-ho adrenaline-junkie, kayaking down waterfalls and scrambling, un-roped up rock faces.  I was rarely doing anything really dangerous enough to be life-threatening or too daft for someone with family responsibilities.  It’s just that as the Nineties rolled into the Noughties I was happier being in control rather than out it.

For Sue, the realignment of our activities didn’t mean too much of a change.  She’s always known her limits and what she feels comfortable doing.  If a rapid’s too scary, the surf is too big, or the rock too steep, she doesn’t have any issues with ego or loss of face to confuse the situation.  Consequently, she’s never been troubled much by thoughts that will niggle me: ‘I could have managed that.  Why did I cop out?  The others made it okay.’   Maybe my change in perspective was partly driven by the loss of skill and technique that inevitably accompanies a reduction in practice.  Not kayaking regularly on rapids results in a loss of timing, feel and confidence; not surfing frequently in the summer means that the waves seem harder to catch, the board doesn’t feel as responsive and its flippin’ harder to get 'out the back.’  If I’d wanted to focus on a particular activity, I’m sure it would have been sustainable, but our lifestyle was now a diluted jumble of everything.

It wasn’t that we weren’t still getting out into the hills and forests or spending time on the beach.  The boys were firstly carried, and then dragged, before being finally followed up all big hills of Wales and The Lakes.  Whether we were camping, in the van, or in a cottage, there would usually be enough of our friends’ children to provide sufficient encouragement and distraction.

On bikes we went from cheap-and-cheerful bike-seats, to tag-a-longs, and then up through the sizes of mountain bikes.  Along the friendly trails in the Forest of Dean, progressing over time to the customised MTB dirt tracks of Grisedale or Afon Forest, we’d snake along, with increasing speed, as a convoy of families.  We used the Canadian canoe to get them on the water, paddling along the canal from Bath or the Avon from Saltford with the two of them perched on small stools we’d wedged into the centre of the boat.  And on the beach, like most kids, they progressed from nervously jumping the waves to surfing on boards in what seemed like the blink of an eye.

Occasionally, Sue and I would get a pass-out for the day if Jon and Liz were able to babysit.  We’d grab the chance with friends to head for Exmoor to paddle our friendly favourite, the Barle, or mid-Wales to walk in the Brecons.  We even squeezed in long weekend in 1995 to do the Dales Way with the gang: 130km in 3 days was hardly a relaxing break from parental duties.  But if we wanted to do something a bit more committing, we’d have to do it solo and leave the other in charge.  I think Sue’s in credit.  I can only recall her leaving me with the boys when she cycled from London to Brighton and the odd weekend away with her girlfriends.  I, on the other hand, usually managed to find at least one challenge a year.  A few spring to mind.

Having been thwarted by the weather on two previous occasions, in 1994 Matt Pollitt and I finally managed to complete the Welsh 3000’s (19 Welsh peaks in Snowdonia over 3000 feet in 24 hours).   After sleeping in the car in the Pen-y-Pass car park, the first on the list was Crib Goch, last done in a crazy moment on a snowy day eight years earlier.  This time it was misty summer dawn and we skipped up it.  The weather was kind, almost too kind, as it turned out to be baking hot as we slogged our way down from Snowdon and then straight up onto the Glyders and Tryfan.  We’d started as a threesome but, by early evening as we descended into the Ogwen Valley, our third member, Dave Hoptroff, had had enough.  Volunteering to hitch back to the car and meet us at the end early the following morning, he waved us off as Matt and I started up the big lump of Pen-y-Ole Wan that guards the way to the Carnedd plateau.  By the time we had made it to the top, it was dark, navigation was tricky and a strange, gusting wind threatened to sweep us off our feet.   We managed to locate a small stone shelter and took sanctuary there for half-an-hour whilst the wind abated.  From the plateau, the route traverses a sequence of rolling summits before, with the sky beginning to lighten, we staggered down what seemed an endless track to the car park, where we hoped Dave would be waiting.  On the go for 23 hours, we were exhausted; I distinctly remember spotting people in the distance who turned out to be sheep, and Matt stopped to curl up by the path for a 10 minute recovery nap when he thought he too was starting to hallucinate.  For some reason, Dave wasn’t there to greet us but fortunately he showed up eventually and, by way of celebration, where else was there to go but Pete’s Eats in Llanberis for one of the infamous breakfasts.  By the time we’d driven back to Bristol, my knee had locked up and I could hardly walk; it never sorted itself out and a few months later I was in the hospital for a cartilage operation.

A couple of years later we made an attempt on the Two Moors Way, a long-distance path that runs from Ivybridge on the south Devon coast, across Dartmoor and Exmoor to a finish in Lynmouth on the north coast.  It’s normally recommended to take a week over the walk and enjoy it.  Thinking we could manage 160 km in three days, including shuttling the cars and camping was rather ambitious.  Joined by Jo Pollit, Dave Perrington and Andy Poole, we gave it a good shot but ultimately had to use the cars for part of the middle section.  One day we ought to go back and finish the job; it’s a beautiful walk that doesn’t deserve to be rushed.  I know Sue would fancy it if we could take our time.   Maybe I’ll give the others a ring?

With weekends increasingly taken up with the boys’ activities, there weren’t too many opportunities in the Noughties to find a big outdoor challenge.  Like many parents, we’d chase from football to swimming to scouts to cricket and time just disappeared.  This coincided with a full-on working week as I was in charge of the factory and Sue was now in her new role as a teaching assistant.  There was one exception, however, and for once I didn’t have to plan it myself.

In 2004 Indesit HQ in Italy proposed an event that involved a team of twelve, comprising at least one employee from each of their European operations, climbing Mont Blanc. To make the final team each country needed to run a preliminary selection event to whittle the applicants down to a few representatives who would then battle it in a final assessment weekend.  I felt obliged to put my name down to see how far through the process I’d manage to progress and Sue, as ever, was gave me the okay.  The initial questionnaire weeded out a fair number but there were twenty of us, including three from our factory, who assembled in Snowdonia one cold, murky April weekend for the ‘UK Trials.’  An outdoor pursuits organisation were running the event and it wasn’t particularly sophisticated.  After a ‘get-to-know each other’ pub meal on the Saturday and an overnight in a B&B in Llanberis, we all assembled at the foot of Snowdon the following morning.  The task was simple: first three to the top would be selected.  They’d chosen the Watkins Path, which was 1000m up from the car park to the top, and made it clear that we didn’t need to worry about working as a team or any other hidden tests; it was purely designed to find those who were able to move upwards quickly.  At 45, apart from one other, I was the eldest, but sizing up the opposition I thought I might have a chance in what was essentially going to be a fell race.  Opting for lightweight gear was a sensible call and, by the time the path turned upwards, the race was on and I found myself in the first half-dozen.  It’s a less popular route but there wasn’t any time to admire the views as it needed concentration on the tricky narrow sections.  An hour or two later I ended up, puffing and panting on a misty summit a minute or two ahead of the next nearest challengers, Peter Phelps, one of the engineers from Yate, and Mark Quigley, a guy from the Marketing team at Head Office.  We three would be the UK representatives in whatever the next selection event had in store.

On a Thursday evening four weeks later, we were checking into a hotel in a tiny mountain village, nestling at the foot of the Monte Rosa massif in the Italian Alps. It wasn’t the most convenient of dates for me and I had needed to make my excuses for Mavis’s 80th birthday which had been combined that weekend with their Silver Wedding bash.  The factory was also in the middle of a major launch that wasn’t going well, thanks mainly to problems with the temperamental automatic drum assembly line.  However I couldn’t do much about it now and needed to focus on the task in hand; climbing Monte Rosa which, at 4,634m, is the second highest mountain in the Alps and only 160m lower than Mont Blanc.   At least we were being guided by experienced Alpinists so there was relatively low risk of falling off or down a crevasse.

I was excited and anxious in equal measure.  I’d just been handed a great opportunity to do something I’d always wanted, climb high on a mountain, but I’d no idea how I’d fare and whether I stood a chance of making the final selection.  Looking round the dining room that evening, I didn’t rate my odds too highly and, to be honest, I just didn’t want to make a fool of myself.  I wasn’t the oldest of the twenty-two that would be purged down to ten but clearly we three Brits were definitely in the ‘plucky amateur’ category.  All the Italians and French seemed to have spent their lives in the mountains, whilst the Russians and Poles had clearly yanked their guys straight out of their Special Forces units: they were like giant bears in their prime.  Even the girl from Turkey was a mountain goat from her native Taurus region.

Fortunately, the Friday would be spent acclimatising and acquiring some familiarisation with crampons, ice-axes and ropes so we’d have chance to try and find our feet.  But first we had to reach the alpine hut, the Refugio Gnifetti at 3400m, where we’d spend the next two nights.  The easy bit was catching the chair lift as high as it would go, but then we had a long upward march across rock and snow before the hut appeared in the distance, seemingly balanced on the edge of a precipice.  The sudden height gain made it hard work and I was glad when the lunch stop was called by a small crystal clear lake.  I had a splitting headache and a slight nosebleed and was concerned that if either of the guides noticed that I’d be eliminated before we’d even got going.  Whilst I sat quietly by the lake, the Russian bears stripped down to their boxers and went for a swim. Luckily, by the time we made it to the hut and dumped some of the weight in our rucksacks, I seemed to have shaken things off.  The cloudless hot afternoon was spent practising stopping slides using the ice axe, climbing whilst roped together, and generally getting to know one another. By the time we settled down for the evening meal, an obligatory pasta dish, I was ready for an early night, knowing we’d be on the way at the crack of dawn.  That didn’t seem to bother most of the others and before long the vodka and birra were flowing and the sound of Russian drinking songs filled the hut and echoed around the mountains.

A word on mountain huts.

Usually sited in a spectacular location, high above where most day-walkers venture, their big advantage is that they provide a launch pad for assaults on the upper sections of mountains.  A refuge from the cold or bad weather, they’ll usually offer an evening meal and maybe a simple bar and, if you’re lucky and the cloud base is above the hut, the views can be awesome.  That’s the good news.  On the downside, they’ll invariably be crowded with noisy other mountaineers. Kit and boots become scrambled in the kit-room and the sleeping arrangements are dormitories with a dozen or more guests squeezed into bunks or extended beds. The chance of a good night’s sleep is zero; not only will the quick gain in altitude be making it hard for the body to relax, but there will other climbers blundering around in the dark at all hours, a guaranteed snorer, watch alarms bleeping and creaking floorboards.  And then there’s the trip to the outside loo: a tiptoe along corridors and a chilly short excursion around the hut edge to the smelly hut.  The black night sky will be bursting with stars but, too cold to hang around, the chance to stargaze must be ignored.  We were fortunate: Indesit had waved the corporate cheque book giving us exclusive use of the hut, but even so, it was a disturbed, sleepless night.

Despite it being July, it was still freezing at 6am when we set off.  Roped together in groups of five, we headed upwards across a mix of scree and snow as the sun rose, casting a brief but wonderful pink glow across the peaks.  By the time we were traversing a snow-covered glacier, warily zigzagging past a few crevasses, the sun had burnt off any early morning cloud and it was heating up.  Now, whilst being roped is great for safety, it’s not much fun if you have to go at the pace of the person at the front, especially if that person is a guide with an agenda to identify those who’ll make the final cut.  Consequently, we were cracking on and I was working hard to keep up.  With five different nationalities on the rope, I was damned if I was going to ask the guide to slow down but I was finding it tough.  Here I was, busting a gut at 4000m, having been sitting behind a desk at sea level just 48 hours earlier; hardly the best acclimatisation.  I was glad when we reached some of the steeper rockier sections; at least it meant a pause whilst we took turns to scramble upwards.  The final snowy pyramid to the summit felt like climbing in treacle.  The sun had softened the snow and even following others’ footsteps it was a case of a two-steps-up and one-step down staircase.  Absolutely knackered when finally reaching the top, I was dizzy from the altitude and effort and needed to sit down and get some serious fluid down me.  We’d ascended far faster than my normal pace and I’d not managed to slow the ‘rope’ down enough to drink properly or nibble enough snacks.  If it hadn’t been clear to me before, it was now: if this was the pace expected for the Mont Blanc climb, then I wasn’t going to be part of that team.  I was more bothered about getting back to the hut, still a flippin’ long walk and scramble back down.  Another ten minutes soaking up the views south across the Italian foothills and valleys and west towards Switzerland and the distinctive nearby Matterhorn, and we were off again.  Apart from the fact that the altitude effect seemed disproportionally beneficial on the descent it was equally as exhausting being dragged along on the rope again by my climbing buddies who seemed hell-bent on making the hut in time for a few beers in the sun on the balcony.  Despite hardly stopping, the hut far below never seemed to come any closer and I just hung on hoping my legs wouldn’t buckle.  Finally, finally, after staggering the last few steps to the hut, I could flop down on a bench, take off the kit and give myself a pat-on-the-back.  Beer or late-afternoon snooze? 

I wasn’t the only one dead on their feet that evening; everyone had made it but most had found it tough.  After the dinner, the guides put their heads together and made their selection. I wasn’t surprised, or even especially disappointed at my failure to make the final team.  They softened the news for us with a free bar, telling us we were all capable of climbing Mont Blanc but they needed to choose those who could achieve it in a weekend with little acclimatisation.   I couldn’t disagree.  Flying home the following day with a new rucksack stuffed full of the freebie clothes and kit, I reflected on what had been a tremendous, exhausting experience.  It would’ve been more enjoyable to have shared it at a leisurely pace with friends but I was hugely grateful for the opportunity.

There comes a point in life when it’s necessary to acknowledge that your kids have somehow become faster, stronger, braver, and more skilful than you are.  Sue was happy to allow them to disappear into the distance, taking pleasure in their confidence and independence.  I experienced a mix of frustration, satisfaction and pride.  On the pistes, we only saw fleeting glimpses as they flashed past, and on the hills they’d humour us by walking at our pace, even if we started to load up their packs in a futile attempt to slow them down.  Stuart had a preference for outdoor activities, whilst Murray had a bigger affinity with ball sports. This suited us fine because as parents we were guaranteed variety and involvement across a wide range of social groups.

By the time he was in his mid-teens, Stuart was kayaking at a level way beyond any that I had reached. Big rivers, big rapids, big drops.  I’d shown support by dusting down my skills, acquiring a new kayak and joining him at the North Avon Canoe Club.  With some of the other parents, (Anna Wedgwood, Jerry and T Wheatcroft and Nige and Steph Stephenson), I’d follow the boys cautiously down the Dart, the Dee and the Durance.  Not for me the rodeo riding in the stopper waves.  I was just happy to pick a safe line and watch from the security of the eddy at the bottom.

One August evening, Julian Orchard organised a paddle from St Justinian on the Pembrokeshire coast across Ramsey Sound to a spot near Ramsey Island, where the fast tidal race threw up steep standing waves.  Known as ‘The Bitches,’ these are a hotspot for adventurous kayakers who want to play and show-off their acrobatic skills.  Stuart and the others persuaded me to join them and I couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough. Half of me wanted to see what the fuss was all about and the other half said I wasn’t competent enough. I satisfied myself on both counts.  It was a straightforward paddle across to 'The Bitches’ whilst the tidal flow was building, with time to enjoy the scenery and wildlife.  As the tide race really began, the turbulence built until, within a few minutes, we were bobbing alongside waves and holes several metres in size.  The others piled in to play whilst I worked hard to avoid being sucked in, nervously enjoying being a witness to, rather than part, of the spectacle.  I really didn’t fancy a capsize knowing that the speed of the water would quickly me sweep out past the island.  If I came out, I’d be half-way to America before the others would come to my aid.

‘Come on Pete!  Give it a go!’

‘Dad, it’s fine! Just ‘Go for it!’ 

‘I’m fine just here, thanks.’

And that just about sums up where I’ve been for the last ten years.

Over the last decade, we’ve walked high in the Alps, trekked in the Himalayas, paddled seas kayaks off the Scottish coast, surfed bodyboards in Cornwall, and mountain-biked in the Lakes.  We’ve been soaked, frozen, boiled and thrilled but never ‘Oh No Shit’ scared and that, for me right now, is just perfect.

‘What’s the chance of that?’  - Another odd coincidence.

An archaeologist specialising in ‘Garages of the late 20th and early 21st centuries’ would have noticed some real evolution taking underway.

Firstly the car lost its place as the chief occupant; booted out to its new home on the drive in all weathers and replaced under cover by a variety of outdoor kit.  Fibre-glass kayaks mutated into plastic versions, surf ski’s took pride of place before becoming extinct and superseded by a fleet of nimble surfboards, and throughout this period several generations of road and mountain bikes came and went.  Now it’s all about bikes; two MTB’s, a time-trial race bike, three road bikes and a turbo-trainer between us.  There’s not a lot of room for much else so it’s just as well we sold the Canadian canoe a few years ago; and therein lies a rather strange tale.

We bought the canoe second-hand back in 1994 from an advert in the local Stroud gazette that a colleague at work had spotted and mentioned to me.  It was a well constructed blue fibre-glass boat with kevlar reinforced lining, strong wooden gunwales and capable of handling white-water.  Clearly something that had been built with care and thought by someone who knew what they were doing.  Exactly what we needed and over the next 15 years we had loads of thrills and enjoyment from it.

However by 2011 it had outlived its usefulness to us and was showing its age as well as a number of battle scars.  We advertised ‘second hand canoe, much loved, much used’ on eBay for £150 and only one person showed enough interest to come round to take a look.  He didn’t know anything about canoes but was a chatty sort of guy who told us he lived on a narrow boat up on the Gloucester canal and needed a craft to use for doodling along the canal to get his groceries, catch eels, and visit his neighbours.  This had been suggested to him by a person staying briefly with friends on the adjacent narrow boat, who apparently in conversation had mentioned he used to make canoes when he still lived up in Northumberland.

‘Really?’  I replied intrigued. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Chris Hare; why have you heard of him?  I think he was quite a well-known in canoeing circles.’

Interesting.  Our boat was a Hudson Classic but tucked away on the inside was a small label with the words Hare Marine Cleveland. I hadn’t mentioned the maker of canoe in the advert but I knew of Hare; he was almost legendary for his early exploratory canoe trips, nearly 40 years ago, around remote parts of the Arctic and Canada and had produced a well-received ‘Song of the Paddle’ book.

‘Sad though’ said the chap ‘Chris is really ill with MS so I’m not sure how much longer he’ll be staying on next-door’s boat.  Listen I’m really interested and I’ll get back to you tomorrow after I’ve had a word with him.’

Next day he was back.  ‘I’ve got to have it.  Chris is dumbfounded that one of only 30 he’d built has turned up again in such an unlikely manner.’ (Number 12 apparently after he’d cross-checked his records for our model, spec’ and colour).

And so after twenty-five years, numerous river trips and plenty of adventures later the canoe ended up back with a neighbour of the folks he was spending his last days with.  He died the following year.