This whole trip could be summarised as my personal battle
with gravity, a force of nature which, over the four-day trek, I grew to loathe
with a passion. The trek would take my group of thirty walkers on a well-used
but none-the-less challenging route known as ‘The 3 Peaks’, taking in each of
the three highest mountains in Wales, England and Scotland (Snowdon, Scafell
Pike and Ben Nevis respectively).
Things had started well. Despite being weighed down by 3
litres of water, enough snacks to feed a small town and a large bag of
self-doubt, I had overcome its relentless pull in order to haul myself and my provisions
to Snowdon’s peak, I guess it was inevitable that the big G would take its revenge
on the way down. It did at least require the assistance of a fellow G – the
dreaded mountain gulley – to bring me down. I was as keen as the next man to
descend quickly, but not that quickly. Deep in conversation with a fellow
trekker, my left foot was soon deep into a gulley, where it was clearly
planning to rest up for a little while. Fortunately for me, at least half of
the group following behind me were partially-sighted and would not have seen
the HD version of my fall. They may well have heard the hard thwack of my knee
hitting the rock, followed by the feint thud of my pride doing the same. But my
overwhelming sense was triangular relief – my knee was only scuffed, my ankle
wasn’t broken and we were nearly off the damned mountain.
I learned quickly
that the key to successfully getting up and down a mountain is not falling
over. Staying upright is easier said than done when you cannot see where you
are putting your feet. Now that I come to think of it, I have difficulty
walking up my street without tripping over – what the hell was I thinking of?
Almost every step demanded a level of concentration which was as sapping as the
physical effort required to climb or descend. The use of walking poles was
invaluable, transforming me from a teetering biped into a marginally more
stable quadruped. At 6 ft 4, my additional limbs didn’t exactly turn me into a
mountain goat – more a kind of arthritic giraffe – but they were my trusted
swords in the battle against the evil forces of gravity. Whilst my poles lent
me physical support, I was equally dependent upon the moral and mental crutch
on offer from my fellow trekkers. The truth is, I think it was as much the
words of guidance, the generosity of spirit, and the compelling desire not to
make an idiot of myself in front of them, which kept me on my feet, for the
most part anyway.
And, as you may have already surmised, it was no easy gig
for my guides, operating as my personal ‘trip adviser’ for several hours at a
time. They had to provide direction –
“shimmy left, step sharp right”, information – “18 incher coming up now” and
white lies – “It’s not far now, I can see the top” in equal measure. It was a
lot of responsibility for them – who would want to risk walking a blind guy off
the edge of a mountain? Apart perhaps from his wife, who had opted instead to
stay home with the dogs.
Of course, there were times when gravity was not my forceful
foe but my best buddy. Like for example, when battling the 40mph wind that
welcomed us to the summit of Snowdon, whipping around our heads, tugging at our
clothes and bags, driving ice-cold rain into our faces. Had someone
inadvertently enraged an ancient Welsh mountain god, invoking this hostile
reception to its summit? I gripped tighter onto my guide’s arm, fearful of
being hurled back to England by an angry gust, but my hands were now
semi-frozen, along with my nose and ears.
“Great fun, this mountain climbing” I joked, but the words were whipped
away by the wind. I like to think they are still blowing around out there
somewhere, untethered by the pull of the earth.
