A Freshman’s Challenge

Steve Smith’s TGO Challenge 2004

Sunday May 16^th 2004

It’s nearly noon and I'm sat on a rock, overlooking Loch Dochard. The cloud is broken, high. The hills are alive with patches of sun, shadow, snow, heather and rock. An underground stream is running its echoing way down towards the loch. Mountains surround me. Some are Munros, conquered with a lighter pack. I'm painfully slow; this is my third day of struggling. Today is my first day of being alone, though asthma is my constant companion. Alison Ashton and friends have ventured onto higher ground leaving me to plod my way round to Bridge of Orchy. It’s taking me awhile to settle into the challenge. For ‘challenge’ is what it is generally termed. “Are you doing the challenge?” you enquire of fellow walkers. No need to mention TGO, just ‘challenge’ is the currency of comradeship.

As I sit I reflect on the challenge so far. Starting from Oban with its lovely port, old buildings and folly looking down over the town. Meeting Geoff Yarnell on the first day, enjoying his company. The camp in Glennoe, then the camp last night where keeping the packs light caused us to improvise a game of guess the OS map area from the map number. We became a little risqué and confessed the OS maps where poignant memories were abound.

I swing the sack onto my back and feel the weight of the swine. At Bridge of Orchy I phone into ‘challenge control’ and speak with Roger. He congratulates me on getting so quickly involved as I mention the legends of Brian Hill and John Jordan.

Tuesday May 18^th 2004

At 0700 I stick my head out of the tent. From 1500ft above Rannoch Forest the sky is every conceivable shade of colour. Light, dark, angry, enticing. It was a rough night. I woke many a time with the tent being pounded by the wind, though only a bit of rain a couple of hours ago. A call of nature requires me to get up. I don't feel like it and it’s painful to break camp. My biggest fear being getting the tent down without it taking off so I wait for a break in the wind and manage it before setting off on a ten hour walk. I ponder yesterday, a walk up the A82, getting wet, and dreams of soup to keep me going to my lunch stop at Gorton.

I get horribly lost around Rannoch Forest trying to get through to Bridge of Gaur. I take refuge, from being cross, in the stunning distant view up Glen Coe. The deer fence on the ground is newer than that on the map, so to are the tracks. I cut through the forest on a stream and pick my way down – steep slopes and continual re-crossings delay me further. Then the long rain soaked haul to Ben Alder Cottage where my energy is poor and with 1km to go I just sit down willing myself to get moving again. I keep chanting, "Come on Steve, just one KM more". On arrival I make soup and am grateful for the dry pair of socks in my pack. Feeling lonely though, this could be the low point of the crossing. I realise that it's 29 hours since I last spoke to anybody.

Wednesday May 19^th 2004

I wake to the fire having burnt out and with it its cheer. The rain last night has caused me to hold off a call of nature so there’s an urgent need that requires the use of the bothy spade. A sign up gives guidance to where one might ‘crap’. It pleads that using the outhouse, open ground, the bothy wall or porch, covering over with a mole hill or building a nice little rockery over ones steaming achievements is not on. I grab walking boots and spade and, rather rapidly, make my way to the recommended turd graveyard some two hundred meters from the bothy.

Setting off at 0700 I soon find places where I have to scramble around rocks and avoid an icy plunge into Loch Ericht. The going is tough, my body complaining. The weather varies, I can not get comfortable with my kit. Passing the shore in one place an Oyster Catcher decides I’m too near its nest. I have to pull my hood up and attach the mouth protector as it continually dive bombs me to see me off. It takes me six hours to get to Ben Alder Lodge and I’m disappointed that the estate has, with consent, moved the path around the lodge. This makes a full pass up the side of the loch impossible and adds height to the walk. Somehow the planners, who agreed to this, along with permitting a series of buildings with every conceivable piece of Scottish architecture crammed into a building too small to accept it, must have missed the point somewhere.

I now have a three and a half hour further trudge to Dalwhinnie, stopping to speak to a mountain biker. I almost pull him off his bike to have my first human contact in 49 hours. I’m low, down and convinced that everybody else is ahead of me on the challenge. I get a high point by stopping to look back down the loch as the sun hit it. Trees, mountains, water and the shades of light conspire to lift my spirits and remind me of why I do this. I keep myself going by daft things entering my head for processing. Like is this ‘The TGO’ or just ‘TGO’ as TGO stands for The Great Outdoors. ‘The TGO’ would imply a stutter as it expands to The, The Great Outdoors. It used to be called The Ultimate Challenge, which never, to my knowledge, got the acronym of TUC. You could imagine it in its early days.

“Now brothers we are on TUC. We’ve made it half way and now we propose to strike out…”

“Right, strike. Everybody out.”

I’ll spare you the rest, it is all tripe that comes into my mind to keep me company. You poor reader are in fact lucky as you only have a snippet of the constant crap that churns inside my head.

I'd arranged to send a parcel to the only hotel in Dalwhinnie. Calling a few weeks back they said they'd be full this night but could hold a parcel for me. I feel miserable as I trudge the final mile in the pouring rain, convinced of no bed for the night. Collecting the parcel I half-heartedly enquire of a room, keeping the hope in my heart in check. The manager checks his books, “we’ve one left.” I ask him the price. I’ll take it at any price. He takes me to it and I follow as a gibbering pathetic moron of gratitude. As he opens the room and shows me around I spout the most painful series of words of praise, gratitude and gratefulness ever to have passed my lips (well apart from to the girl on OS sheet 198 some twenty years previous). The bath is the most pleasurable of my life as I lower my aching limbs bit by bit into the pool of warm water.

When I eventually extract myself from the bath, believe me this is along while later, I make my way to the restaurant for a meal. Settling into my seat it does not cross my mind that I might not be the only TGO participant taking refuge in the hotel tonight.

"TGO"?

I look up to an enquiring face.

“How did you know?”

"Tanned, tired, unshaven and no shoes!"

Yup, that about sums me up and I shake hands with John Hooper as I contemplate how dumb my question must have sounded. John goes to fetch another TGO and I’m introduced to the infamous Di Gerrard. Soon we are joined by John Jocys. From 49 hours alone, which shocks them, I’m suddenly buzzing, alive and starting to feel part of something. All the pain suddenly feels worthwhile as we share stories and adventures. The struggles make the journey even more satisfying in the end when the discomforts are replaced by ease. Stories change hands freely and we’re all amazed by the contrast of their stories of a large gathering in another bothy whilst I was very alone not many miles away in Ben Alder Cottage.

Thursday May 20^th 2004

I eat a grand breakfast in grand company which continues to a parting of the ways near Coire Chuaich where I was again alone to walk down the Allt na Fearna before the cut across the lower reaches of Maol an t-Seilch and a drop down to the bridge at the dam on the loch north of Gaick Lodge. Approaching the dam I see two figures pause and wait for me. It’s Geoff and John, having taken the longer route via Gaick Lodge. We make good progress and my original plan to camp is slowly replaced by the possibility that Ruighteachain Bothy might be within reach. I lose John and Geoff on the lower slopes of Can Dearg. My breathing not allowing me to keep a pace.

Some of the views are stunning and I recall why Scotland is so beautiful. The Alps, for sure, are beautiful yet it's every persons ideal image of mountain scenery. Only viewable from certain angles and often in nice weather. Scotland has the moods of much weather added to it and unlike an artists canvas you can be amongst it, part of it, embracing it not just looking on.

Cutting through the forest above Allt na Cuilce, picking between the fallen tress on a track, I meet with John again. We keep each other going and share the pain of the track down into Glen Feshie. Although the decent breakfast and the vitamin C caused me to fly during early parts of the day I’m now beginning to lag. My quick fire appalling jokes keep John’s mind from the pain of the walk.

It has started to rain and I cannot really make out the bothy in the poor light. Eventually my nose picks up the scent of a fire. It feels warm, welcoming. Bursting through the door, after over ten hours walking, I’m met by a huge array of people. A hearty log fire and John and Geoff ready to spring up and shake my hand. A chair opens up for me. The comradeship strikes me. We are all, as individuals, trying to get across Scotland but to each one of us the success of each others crossing is just as important as the success of ones own. The Munros are about the mountains you climb, the TGO about the people you meet. Yet in both cases the soul is worked upon. Both offer hard, tough, gruelling days yet when rest comes a satisfaction descends that words can barely express. The evening passes by with good stories of the hills, simmering hot drinks and simmering socks.

Bob Lees falls pray to my bad jokes. Having bought super glue to mend his boots he tells how the chap in the shop reluctantly sold it to him, saying he doubted it would solve the problem. “Bob,” I say, “you should go back and say that although it has fixed the problem, how do I get the boot off?”

Friday May 21^st 2004

I’m given a cracking pace this morning by tailgating Alan Hardy. He’s interesting to talk to, very knowledgeable about the hills. After an hour or so I lose him, he’s just too quick though I’m grateful for him having got me started in what is normally the slowest part of my day. I’m soon walking with John and Mike Fallon. We get a thing going about craving for fried eggs, beans and chips. Every excuse we can we get it into the conversation. Continually adding to our fantasy meal. We see an aerial in the distance and even fantasise that it’s on top of a café, selling fried eggs, beans and chips.

I camp just short of the Lin of Dee, avoiding hitting the road into Braemar. On the bend in the river I sit with the tent open looking back towards some of today's walk. A wide river gently passes within a few feet. Some snow-capped mountains frame the horizon. Heathers, trees and grass pick out contours, gullies. Rock marks the crags. The weather has been all sorts today. Laid in the tent I draw a compass onto my TGO cap with the peak facing East.

Saturday May 22^nd 2004

It was just a three hour walk to Braemar in the morning sunshine. The day turns out beautifully and the Fife Arms Hotel has a single room for me but not for five hours. I’m happy to stroll around Braemar, eating in cafes (especially enjoying a fried egg and chips) and generally chilling with fellow TGO participants. The atmosphere is here to just be soaked up. A few people comment that I’ve drawn the compass wrong on my cap before they realise the joke.

Bernie and Penny Roberts approach me. “We are having a small gas problem,” she says. I’m about to reply “Oh please,” when I realise that it’s not dehydrated meals that are the problem but a lack of camping gas on which to cook them. I’m able to make a donation of a nearly full cartridge. Scotland never ceases to amaze me when such basic supplies as gas cartridges are not available in the shops.

A good evening is had in the Fife Arms. Plenty of atmosphere with a jamming session having Steve Wagstaff and John Jocys on squeeze boxes with a superb rogue fiddle player playing the most amazing music. His pace and Steve’s alcohol consumption make an amusing contrast with Steve often left with swinging arms trying to regain a hold on the proceedings.

Sunday May 23^rd 2004

I lunch with Alison, her partner Adrian and baby Ellen. I've not seen her for a week and a few hours. It’s good to catch up. She tells me that I’m animated and enthusiastic and I look a far cry from how I appeared a week ago.

I set off and walk into the mountains, as far as the bothy at Lochcallater Lodge. I soon bump into Val Hadden and Mary Brook and am embarrassed as I can not recall when I saw them last. They soon fill me in and we are able to fill each other in on our progress so far. The TGO is as much about recalling your route as about recalling who you saw where and when.

It’s a lovely walk up the side of the Callater Burn in the beautiful sunshine. The actual lodge custodians, Stan and Bill, are there inviting TGO participants in and I have tea. Sat on one of an array of odd matching chairs I survey the kitchen. Wood clad walls, papered with photographs and newspaper cuttings. A fire does its bit, drawing a focus, warming the room and heating two blackened kettles with water for tea. Accepting their kind offer of a bed I have a single room to myself on the first floor, high in the mountains, with an original hoop iron framed Victorian bed and the soothing glow of gaslight. Stan and Bill open their lodge, hearts and trust to the TGO. A rare commodity in this modern world.

Monday May 24^th 2004

I wake early and sneak downstairs to make my breakfast. Denis Pidgeon stirs and comes into the kitchen, I think he’d passed out in the lounge whilst enjoying Stand and Bill’s liquid hospitality. He mutters something about it being the middle of the night and wishes me luck for my day ahead. So I’m off at 0545, my earliest start of the challenge and I rue having to walk across Lochnagar in bad weather whilst my two half rest days were in glorious sun. To add to the insult of the weather gods my descent, on route to Shielin of Mark, is marked by Lochnagar appearing gloriously out of the cloud.

Tuesday May 25^th 2004

I’m just over the top of Muckle Cairn, on route to Tarfside, bogged down in heather picking my way down to avoid turning an ankle on the uneven ground. My right leg slips into a hole and I buckle over, disturbing a grouse that launches into the air with a familiar squawk. Though I’m sure that there is a hint of laughter in its voice this time. No doubt it’s in league with the cuckoo that has been following me ever since Oban.

On the shores of Loch Lee I bump into Val and Mary, now for the fourth time of the walk. We watch an old tractor go by and Mary remarks on its age. Val and I pinpoint it as 1981 and then proceed to have an in-depth discussion of which letters represented which years. Mary listens with a bemused interest of witnessing two people with such a weird hobby connecting in such scenery.

The hostel at Tarfside is lovely. Belonging to the church it is opened to the TGO and staffed by kind and welcoming lady volunteers. Another one of the treasures of the TGO. An Austrian chap is also staying, enjoying the TGO. I ask if Austria has a coast to coast walk. He looks at me as if I’m some blithering idiot. Some jokes just fail.

The shower reveals the extent of the pack rash on my shoulders, weeping with pustules. After washing off grime I notice that my right hand is getting much browner than my left. This is an incredible effect of walking West to East. If I get lost I should just check which side of me the moss has grown on and navigate from that. I could imagine a Sherlock Holmes story called ‘The case of the brown sided man.’

“This man was not killed in London, Watson.”

“By Jove Holmes! What makes you say such a thing?”

“Elementary. You’ll observe my dear Watson that the poor wretches right hand is browner than his left. Clearly he was on the TGO challenge when he met his fateful end.”

“Great Scott Holmes!”

“He could be but it has been noted that many of the TGO participants are from England.”

“What about those tartan underpants then Holmes?”

“That could be the clue we’ve been looking for.”

Wednesday May 26^th 2004

Sat in a cafe in Edzel with Alison and Adrian and baby Ellen I reflect on the days four-hour walk so far. Walking with Alison along much flatter terrain I realise the walk is starting to come to and end. The mountains behind us, the coast will be with us tomorrow. I’m feeling very fit, my pace is good and I could do it all over again. Two hours of further walking take Alison, myself and Ros Stokes to the North Waterside camping site. Passing a beautiful house with perfectly kept lawns I pose the idea of knocking their door and asking, “We are doing the TGO and you either allow us to use your loo or we cut little holes in your lawn. And by the way can we camp?”

On a lovely summers evening twenty tents fill part of the official site, a party atmosphere ensues with people strolling and chatting.

Alison took this of me having a sleep at North Waterside

Thursday May 27^th 2004

On a beautiful clear sunny day Alison, Sue Oxley and I walk from North Waterside to the beach at St. Cyrus. I think the three of us feel very close as we share the experience of finishing. We chat freely, openly, enjoy the views of the countryside, the wheat shimmering in the gentle wind like a sea. On the real beach I strip to my undies and charge straight in the sea - it was mighty cold. Both Alison and Sue say they are impressed. Ah, at the age of thirty-eight I eventually impress some girls on a beach.

We share handshakes and claps with other finishers. Laid on the beach we all agree that this is one of the most relaxed and chilled moments of our lives. Neither Sue, Alison or I want to leave so we stay for quite awhile.

Alison took this of me on St Cyrus

We report into the Park Hotel and go to Challenge Control to sign in, receive certificate, badge and handshakes. The obligatory T-shirt is handed to each person perhaps, to the delight of the waiting staff, in an attempt to ensure that each participant has a fresh top to wear for the meal. I sense some sadness in me now that the walk is over. I slip off to my room to shower and return to Challenge Control to be warmly shaken by the hand by another finisher. It’s now I realise that the question of was I smelly when I arrived was given an overwhelming affirmation. Now washed and fresh my bodies own odour is not able to mask that of the others. As my hand is pumped I’m gripped in embrace that even an arms length away leads me to say “Aye, aye so nice to finish. Must dash, catch you later.”

The evening of festivities includes the meal with speeches. A grand occasion with over 200 people there. Also some famous British hill walkers are here, names I've just read about suddenly all in one place. It’s good to sit with John, Alison, Adrian, Sue and John Jordan. Good to chat with Val, Mary, Geoff, John Hooper, John Dodd, Brian Hill, Di Gerrard and everybody else I’d connected with on route.

Friday May 28^th 2004

It’s sad to leave, sad to say goodbye to so many people that have rapidly become friends. Friendships are made through time or by sharing adversity. Entering a cafe for lunch on the way home I look to see if there are any fellow challengers. Of course there are none, but I have got used to being on the look out for fellow challengers. The car keys in my pocket, remind me of home, work and responsibilities. Only fifty weeks to go before the challenge starts again.