L|ve the Outdoors

We had done the hard bit, with two-thirds of our Munros climbed, some massive hill days and the huge effort needed to catch ourselves up.  Now, beginning to slow ourselves down was starting to bear fruit. All that was now dashed upon the rocks, like a galleon in a storm, with me arriving in to camp yesterday barely able to walk and forced in to using my walking poles as crutches. This was looking like the time to bring the curtain down on our Challenge effort.

I woke up early, immediately noticing it was bloody cold, with my breath forming a mist in front of my face. Reaching for the down jacket and hat, I lay in my bag and considered the options. I wasn’t yet sure what was wrong with me, and began slowly working through the options I vaguely remembered from Dr John Ellerton’s ‘Casualty Care in Mountain Rescue‘, a 400-page tome on fell medicine.

I ran through the symptoms in my head, pain when I touched the area, no deformity to the limb and swelling present in the lower shin. I was able to walk on it relatively fine, but as soon as it started to bear weight it was significantly painful. There weren’t any ‘crunching’ sounds and no ligaments appeared to hurt – it all pointed to a minor stress fracture, or certainly the beginnings of one – not comforting at all. Looking at the Route Sheet we were expected to finish by Wednesday next week – still 5 days time- something which seemed much, much too far away.  Putting aside whether I would be able to complete the Challenge at all, if I couldn’t improve the pace from my tortoise-like hobble it was liable to take me the best part of 2 weeks to arrive at the east coast anyway.

Fortunately, all of this was tomorrow’s problem, or at least tonight’s – as today we needed to get to Braemar village to the east and rest there for half a day. We began packing up lethargically, noticing the German guys were having a lay-in, and the two other Challengers both began to stir before quickly exploding in to activity, bustling around camp making food and generally seeming in much better spirits than they were yesterday – they both had looked shattered.

I felt I’d be able to get to Braemar – albeit slowly – so I assumed I’d make a judgement once there as to whether it was time to call it a day or not, but for now I wanted as much information as possible to make that decision. Walking over to the Challenge lads to say hi we were fortunate to find they had around 10 crossings between them, opening the door for me to pick their brains for alternative suggestions on ways to change our route.  Ten minutes later we had a host of ‘potential diversions’ scribbled on the Route Sheet before they headed off, mentioning as they went that we should drop in to Mar Lodge for tea and cake, which wasn’t an invitation we intended to turn down.

We began gently moving, painfully slowly at first, being careful to use both poles to take as much weight off the leg as possible. I remember being quite distraught during this first half an hour, Marr was only 7km, but this could easily have taken me all day;  I knew it wasn’t going to work like this and I was on the cusp of retiring.  I could practically feel my determination and optimism draining away.  Gabe was absolutely brilliant, returning the help I had offered him during his struggles with illness during the early part of the Challenge back, with interest. He patiently helped me hobble onwards, kept me motivated, despite likely wondering whether I would ask him to continue solo by the end of the day.

Through all this, the scenery wasn’t half bad even though we were leaving the larger hills behind.  The path to Mar Lodge was enjoyable, if a little dull after our travails of the previous day through the Lairig Ghru, with a different sort of greenery replacing the wind-swept heather and rocky tracks of yesterday. Normally it would have been easy walking, which was lucky as this was about all I could manage – our intended route (involving doubling back for a trio of Corbetts and a look at the Linn of Dee) was quickly shelved for another day without a second thought.

The Germans caught us up and passed around an hour later, only ambling at a slow pace themselves. The path meandered a little, and lo and behold there was a group of guys stood staring intently at the track ahead of us. I realise Scottish whisky is imbibed throughout the day, and with this being a weekend we couldn’t be sure they weren’t half cut, but from a distance it looked very odd indeed.

Arriving closer, this bunch of strange people turned out to be a group of conservationists measuring tadpoles density in puddles. We greeted them pretty cheerfully, unable to muster a single ribbeting joke between us. Things must have been serious. That said, the flat track seemed to have eased my leg a little, as I was now able to speed up to what I would cautiously call a slow walking pace.

Mar Lodge loomed as we emerged from the wood, quite an impressive looking place yet decidedly quiet and seemingly empty. We assumed the guys had been and gone as we were extremely slow getting here. Round a corner, we were met with a line of backpacks of varying sizes, and out of the woodwork Challengers seemed to appear. Mar Lodge was full of the buggers. Dumping the packs, we walked in to say hi to people and it was the strangest feeling – a bit like a school reunion, but of people you’ve only met last week.

There were the two guys from Derry Lodge the previous night, the American couple we met leaving the Rothiemurchus forest, in addition to a couple of guys we had met at Drumnadroicht and one chap from Dornie. That seemed like a lifetime back! We got talking and this is when I truly understood what the Challenge is about, when I finally ‘got it’. It isn’t really about crossing Scotland, that is more the social lubricant, the empty canvas still needing an artist and paint. It is about a bunch of people together, passionate about similar things, all discussing their travels so far – their failures & triumphs, and waxing lyrical about just how much they adore the outdoors. Yes, there were a few in a rough state, but everyone was grinning and joking. I left a note on the white-board, found a packet of biscuits and got stuck in. There was no cake, and whether there ever was any cake seemed a bit of a mystery.

Pretty much all of this motley crew were going to Braemar one way or another, though the vast majority mentioned ditching the Tomintoul viewpoint path (our original route) and instead heading straight towards Braemar. I was taking the road anyway, so figured I’d tag along. Whilst all this was being discussed, Mike Jones walked in, the chap we met in Dornie, our start point. He was in fine spirits yet seemed a wee bit weary, making a beeline for the biscuits almost immediately. That is the sort of thinking which makes you a multiple-time Challenger right there folks.

We drank a load of coffee, finished off plenty of biscuits ourselves and headed off, joining the road for about 5km. I am not sure whether Mar Lodge’s biscuits had magical properties, but somehow I was definitely walking more quickly at this point, despite still having to walk with the ‘crutch’ technique it felt markedly easier than the morning. In our little group we had a Welshman, two Americans, a Pole and several English – all chatting away happily, making time pass quickly.

One of the guys, Merv, was on his 9th crossing, and it turned he is a Yorkshireman like myself – except unlike me, he actually has a proper Yorkshire accent. We got an excellent run down on a lot of the places to go/not to go were we planning any future crossings, not to mention a not-so-brief explanation of street light engineering, his former profession. Now you may think this may have taken away from my Challenge experience, but after a few km on the roads my leg was starting to ache like hell, and Merv really did me a big favour by distracting me from the pain. During the last kilometre I had to drop back, I was struggling to match the dawdling pace of the group.

We arrived in Braemar by mid afternoon, both much the wiser about street lighting and yet somehow simultaneously still not knowing very much at all. Braemar was a first visit for me, and what a lovely little place it is.  Little tea-rooms, a cracking gear-shop and a huge pub, the apparant place of some raucous parties over the years – courtesy of the Challenge.   We found the local co-op and I decided to buy some key medical supplies, ending up walking out with a huge bag of crisps, a four pack of lager and some chocolate. In truth there was precious little to buy in there and we were both glad to have resupplied in Aviemore.

The camp site came next; I had received an email days before telling me there was no issue with space and so didn’t bother booking, but the sheer amount of people descending on the place seemed to surprise everyone, staff included. We ended up getting a plot with a good 15 other people and a tent-forest was soon erected, with everything from Hillebergs to Terra Novas going up whilst the weather was still fine. Now properly set up, some of the lads were starting on the beers early and I felt it would be rude of me to not join in, so I cracked a tin and started having a chat to some of the guys who had arrived earlier, before deciding to head for the showers – which had recently been refurbed. Half an hour later I felt fantastic, with clean(ish) clothes, and I’m sure even the limp had gone a bit.

I gathered from the chat that a lot of people were going to take our original intended route to Lochnagar tomorrow, which was meant to be joined with three other Munros – a route which would mark the last of the hill days on our Challenge. We knew it wasn’t happening, and needed to set off to Braemar Sports to buy a map to work out a way to shelve our intended plans for a whole other route. Munching chocolate and mercifully without my pack, I hobbled my way back to the centre of Braemar, passing Peter the German on the way (we waved), where we sat outside a fish and chip shop with our new map and a chinograph pencil.

Ten minutes later we had a plan. The way we saw it, the most direct route would have been going over the tops before taking Glen Cova towards Montrose, but above all else I needed flat terrain. We agreed on a route we had zero enthusiasm for but knew was necessary, and decided on taking the road to Ballater. If the worst came to the worst we could abandon en-route, there would be plenty of people to give us a lift, but it also let us decide to either head for the coast (just keep walking due east), or try to fit in a little more of our original route in if I started to feel up to it. Pleased with ourselves, and having solved the imminent problem, we hit up Gordons Tearoom for some dinner.

The place was almost full, with us grabbing the last table and ordering a rather hearty meal. I have zero idea what I ordered (I want to say fish and chips), but remember it being tasty, with the staff especially welcoming to a bunch of hikers taking over the joint. Walking back, the leg really started to hurt. Unsure whether the painkillers were wearing off or whether the body was crying out for some rest, I took the hint and retired to my tent as rain started to hit the flysheet.

Still light, I checked the leg, which was pretty swollen. Assuming this was going to be the swansong evening, I thought I’d go out in a bang, quite literally, as I popped open the Doritos bag, opened another beer and decided I’d read my book and relax. I was in actually in strong spirits after the uncertainty of the morning, yet well aware we were nowhere near the east coast yet, with four full days of walking ahead of us at a normal pace, with us currently far from able to do even that.

 

“Two men and a layby?”

“Hmm, not bad. What about The May Ticks?”

“Oh, definitely a point for that. Maybe Ben-Hurt.”

“All Painful on the Western Front?”

“Rebel without a Tent Floor?”

“These aren’t getting any better”

We woke early after a peaceful night of sleep, with yesterday’s extra distance letting us have a leisurely start for the first time in the trip. There was little to do, yet lots to experience – the perfect combination for hikers in the wilds. A leisurely breakfast came next, and as we sipped coffee by the stream we joked about what we would call our adventure thus far, were we Hollywood producers after a catchy parody title. As you’ve realised by now, they were all terrible.

The Rohiemurchus camp proved a magical little spot, still and quiet despite only being a few hours walk from civilization. The bike paths had dropped away and we now had a gentle stroll up towards the Lairig Ghru.  The feet felt surprisingly good this morning, much more alive than either of us expected; and with them now properly dressed we were optimistic for a superb day ahead. All seemed to be going well. Little would we know, that by the end of the day we would struggle to continue, and be faced with a very real question of whether we would have to abandon altogether.

The sun shined brightly, bathing everything in warmth as we slowly packed up, tents still damp, but ground rapidly drying all around us. A chap on his morning run flew past our campsite, with me shouting a cheerful “morning!” after him. Now almost packed up, a couple of American TGO hikers passed us, briefly stopping for a chat. They were intending Derry Lodge as their destination for the day, and we wished them well as they headed off in to the distance.

The start of our day was a lethargic wander through the woods, slowly gaining height to let us look down towards a pretty creek. A couple of mountain bikers flew up behind us and we stepped aside to let them through. I remembered reading an article on just how bad the Lairig Ghru was for mountain bikers barely a couple of months before and hoped they had plenty of patience for a day of rock-hopping!

Part of Our New Start was changing our socks every hour without fail for a dry pair, to try and remove any chance of sweat causing our feet to soften and break up, in addition to preserving the healing process best we could. With this in mind we sat in amongst the heather, changed them and enjoyed the sun as yet more bikers passed us.

Approaching the Lairig Ghru for the first time in quite a few years, it was a pleasant stroll, with it usually being winter when I find myself up in these parts. The treeline receded behind us as we emerged on to an open path, a mixed party of British and American hikers making ground rapidly on us, all with light packs.

We had a chat as they passed us, although I must admit being none the wiser where they were actually going.  It seems they were exploring the world and this was just one of their destinations to tick off, with something about Iceland mumbled. Some of them were carrying almost nothing, which puzzled us untill they mentioned heading all the way Braemar. Waving them goodbye we wished them a good trip, still wondering how they were going to get to Iceland with barely a wallet in their pocket, and continued heading on our 20km rock-clad path.

Our route to Ben Macdui was still possible of course, we felt up to it and the feet seemed to not be aching too much, but in truth we didn’t much fancy it.  We momentarily entertained the thought of summiting then dropping down the far side to Glen Derry, and whether it would save us time, but felt staying on the easier path made much more sense.

The Lairig Ghru is a singular place with a gentle path gradually replaced by rising valley walls, as the path gives way to a field of little stones as we gained height.  This was replaced itself by a period of stepping-stones going through a soggy, rather muddy bit just prior to the highest point – eventually ending up at a boulder-field. There were hints of snow at the highest points, not quite yet fallen to the heat from the sun, as we stopped at the Pools of Dee. This area was quite heavy going and we were starting to feel the feet ache once again. Luckily for us, there were only a few km left of the rough stuff, before we could join a more easy-going path with little elevation change.

As we descended the south side of the Lairig Ghru opened out and was stunning; the terrain becoming easier and easier with a gentle descent giving one of the most impressive views of the trip. The meandering little stream heading down the mountain side with the peaks behind, still dusted with snow, was mesmerizing – we wanted to sit there all day looking all around us.

This high point gave way to a gentle section of walking on the flat. Despite the earlier rocky parts, it was barely after noon and we were feeling vindicated in our choice of route. It was stunning, with blue sky and sun only adding to the natural design of the place, and as we passed the Devil’s Point, we were already considering winter climbing routes. Corrour bothy (our original idea for a camping spot if the feet were bad) looked particularly bleak mind you, and we were glad to continue onwards.

An hour onwards, the best of the weather seemingly was behind us, with clouds and gentle rain falling as we turned east towards the Allt Preas nam Meirleach, and then on to Derry Lodge. It was thankfully only intermittent, though our spirits were high and it hardly mattered, it was only around 4pm and so another early camp was possible. We knew we had a short day to Braemar tomorrow, so our rest day had actually turned in to two and half. Rather pleased with ourselves, we descended towards the fords.

At this point it all started going wrong. Whilst descending, I caught a stone on a steep bit, tripped, tried to put my foot out to balance myself, and fell over to one side. Picking myself up, I thought nothing of it, I didn’t have more than a few scuffs on my hands. We were about 1km away from Derry Lodge, so as far as I was concerned it was the last little run in, I’d put some anti-septic on them later.

I decided I might as well carry on due to the camp being so close and got up. Immediately upon putting my foot down, I felt pain shooting through my left leg. It didn’t feel right at all. I took my rucksack off and walked around a bit, trying to understand what happened. It was intensely painful, and having looked at the area which hurt, there was nothing superficially wrong with it. It didn’t feel like a break, it didn’t seem like a tendon problem, and it was possible to walk, albeit extremely painfully – so I reasoned I’d rather get to Derry Lodge and set camp.

That 1km to Derry Lodge was agony, I used both my walking poles like crutches, putting my weight on my right leg as I stabilized my left with both poles at once, trying to remove as much weight as possible.  I remember grunting with the pain as we passed the Americans we had waved at that morning, who were busy making camp at a pretty spot where the burns joined. I threw them a wave, gritted my teeth and cracked on. This 1km took over an hour, and as we arrived over the foot bridge at Derry Lodge I was already making plans for Gabe to continue without me. I could not see how I could make any sort of distance at this speed.

Arriving at Derry Lodge, there were a couple of guys already there with tents just going up, as we searched around for a good spot. We ended up with what we thought was one of the best sites in the area, close to the burn, protected by the trees yet open enough not to be concerned with anything dropping on our tents.

Once the tents were up, Gabe fancied a rest, and it was about time to figure out whether it was a show stopper or not.  I attempted to wander around a bit on the leg, still using poles as crutches. I went to see the guys who were sat on a fallen tree trunk enjoying the early evening light, with the leg feeling substantially better without a pack, yet still aching with every step. It turns out they were both German, one living in Aberdeen (Peter) and another from Berlin who was visiting his friend for a few days in the hills. I tried out a little German, but it has been years since I used much of it, and discussing their evening food and saying ‘mein Bein wehr sehr‘ was about as far as I got. I got that look I recognized from the early days of living in Norway, the raised eyebrows combined with the creeping smile, which told me they were trying hard not to burst out laughing at my rusty pronunciation.

Their hill day had been Macdui, with their goal to get to Braemar where the Berlin friend would depart, with Peter staying in the area for a few days. They had no idea about the TGO, so I explained our route thus far, and our fairly epic series of days, with eyebrows raising a little as I retold our gradually more intense trip. I wished them a good trip and left them to cook, returning to cook a little food, wash our socks and relax.

I probed the leg a little, gently checking first my foot, then all the way up the leg. It appeared to be a fibula injury, I decided not to worry too much at this point, I didn’t have anything in the first aid kit which could handle an internal leg injury, I was taking anti-inflammatories anyway for the feet, so why not enjoy the evening.  It was a beautiful one after all – and we were warm, fed and were looking forward to our rest. We heard voices and two Challengers arrived over the foot bridge, with me hobbling over to them both to say hi. Both were pretty exhausted by this point with them finding the Lairig Ghru heavy going, though they were hiking on their own.

It was nice to camp with some other Challengers for the first time since Dornie, and we let them get on with getting set up while we returned to our camp for a relax. As dusk was falling it started getting cold, and the down jacket went on before retiring to bed to read. The leg was swollen but not unduly painful now that I got my weight off it, yet I was concerned with the very real risk I would not be able to end the Challenge due to how slow I was moving, with abandonment an imminent possibility.

Aviemore Abundance

Looking out from our hotel’s dining room, we could see the fells in the distance through the French Windows – illuminated as they were in the glaringly bright morning sun. The Scottish breakfasts (don’t call it English, you’ll get looked at funny) were ordered and we wondered what the day would have in store for us. Whilst we were waiting for our greasy fry-up to arrive, we dug in to the breakfast buffet like starved savages: toast, cereals, yoghurt and fruit all vanishing with gusto.

Our breakfast conversation sounded like any other morning, requests to pass the toast or pour some extra orange juice, even how beautiful the weather was.  We both wanted to preserve a precious few more minutes of normality, to keep the illusion of it being a relaxing morning – but behind the veneer of calmness, we were certainly a little worried.

We needed to switch our monochrome vision of the past few days back to colour, to reboot ourselves, to realise the simple truth that despite the massive effort we have put in so far – we were only really about half way with a good few Munros still to climb. The literally painful truth was that the feet weren’t going to get any better and we were going to have to make some changes, as we wouldn’t be able to bail ourselves with endurance and stamina as we had done thus far.

After breakfast, I brought my copy of the Route Sheet (a master list of all our upcoming days) out of my pocket, printed on waterproof paper and now flecked with dried mud from our adventures so far. At least for our Challenge, pulling out the Route Sheet is a serious declaration to make, with it only being done in the direst of situations.  Essentially it’s like saying you are absolutely knackered and are trying to reduce distance, and most likely on the verge of keeling over. Today, we were looking at the ascent and distance numbers for the next few days and wondering what would be best to cut.

Rationing the Route

Editing the route is difficult on the fly due to each individual day being part of a sequence – if you move one part of that sequence, the rest of it stops forming a functional route – not to mention ‘shortcuts’ conceived in haste are rarely easier than the route you carefully planned months ago on 25k scale maps.  Luckily, during the planning process I spent a long while looking in to potential routes through the Cairngorms, with a good five potentials still in my mind (amongst them were Gleann Eanaich, the Lairig Ghru, the Fords of Avon, Glen Avon and Glen Loin).  With the water levels so low the Fords of Avon was a tempting place to go, even if our general excitement towards it didn’t much get beyond lukewarm – mainly due to how much distance that would involve for us to get towards Tarfside – where we intended to be in 2 days.

Frankly, most of the foul-weather alternatives (FWA) involved ascents over rough ground or they were much flatter yet included a significant increase in distance, becoming unattractive because of it. One of our most ‘severe’ FWAs was essentially a Challenge ‘abort’ (still finishing), where we would proceed almost directly east, shadow the River Gairn and get to Ballater in three days (two at a push). The hill days would be banished to mere unrealised potential, and we would settle in for the long slog to the coast.

Neither of us wanted that, we discussed at breakfast that we probably needed two days of reduced mileage more than anything else –  this would let us get ourselves in better shape before we returned to our intended route. Often the simplest possible solutions make the most sense and we agreed the Lairig Ghru was probably our best bet – it was only a small change of plan from our Ben Macdui route too, so depending how we felt tomorrow the Ben could still be on. The Lairig Ghru is a stony route we knew would aggravate the feet, yes, but it is a well-marked direct path which would make for fast travel.

To give us an extra advantage, we decided to set off this afternoon rather than in the morning – with an aim to clear most of the Rothiemurchus Forest to reduce our day tomorrow. We knew the key was dropping the number of hours we were walking each day significantly and giving the feet time to recover in camp, rather than purely altering the difficulty.

Going Postal

The next port of call was Aviemore Post Office to pick up my resupply box, with Gabe having already picked his up from the hotel last night. Arriving at the post office, only a minute down the road, I asked for my parcel –  the cashier disappearing in to the back area to rummage, returning shortly asking after to confirm my name. After a further search, I was told there was no parcel here by that name; and my morning, which held so much promise only moments ago – had rapidly taken a turn for the worse.

I couldn’t understand why it wasn’t there.  It had been sent early enough to have have been there by Saturday/Monday, at least two days prior to our arrival in Aviemore.  I received a text confirming it was sent on the correct day, so the expectation was that I’d walk in, pick it up and get on with it.  Everything had been so well organised.

The parcel was my resupply box, which contained all the food required for the rest of the Challenge – in addition to camera charger, medical supplies and crampons for our next section. It wouldn’t be impossible to replace, though this would mean a supermarket sweep I didn’t want to have to make. There was always the option of ‘outdoors’ meals from Aviemore’s numerous sports shops of course, but that would put me back close to a cool £100 for three meals a day.

A little investigation had to follow, with it unfortunately not aided by a postmaster who had got out of bed on the wrong side that morning.  Armed with an identification code, I contacted the post office at which it was sent to confirm what was going on. The (sending) post office confirmed it had indeed been posted and that it should have been there two days ago. I was left with one hope – that it would arrive today, or we were going to need to cut our plans down and leave tomorrow (assuming it arrives), or spend the money, leave today and abandon it.

Rucksack Reduction

With nothing further I could do until the 11 o-clock delivery, I headed back to the hotel to see Gabe, who had bought a box to send back his excessive kit – of which he had plenty. Because of both of us are Mountain Rescue team members we packed conservatively – mindful of not wanting to be caught out by anything, but especially the weather and the distance. We both have a decent amount of medical training, so our first aid kits were extensive, certainly not as minimal as I had seen other Challengers carry.  In addition, we carried a fairly broad selection of clothing and emergency kit (bothy bag, mylar bivvy etc) to handle benightment in the mountains, even if it became seriously cold.

All that said, Gabe was now being ruthless.  His pack weight had been a cause of much teasing from me for days – him taking it mostly well – but he knew he had over cooked it. Aviemore was just as much his salvation as mine, and the room rapidly filled with different piles of his kit – the ‘keeps’, and the ‘nopes’. Lets just say there were a lot of ‘nopes’. We packed up and checked out by 10am, hobbling outside to sit in the sun whilst I recharged my camera batteries, soaking up the beautiful morning as Gabe headed to the post office to send his now full parcel home.

Boxing Day

Some time later I saw Gabe wandering back still holding a parcel and assumed he had forgotten something, though as he got closer I noticed it was covered in grey duct-tape, the same colour I had used on mine.  Flap over, it seemed our luck had turned – the postal delivery had arrived early and I now had my supplies.

What followed was a careful repacking of the contents of the box, with the crampons, crocs and wind-shirt going back (the wind-shirt was hardly being used and there was no snow whatsoever for crampons). The food bag was refilled and went from wonderfully light to heaving-full, due to the full week of food, with the excess portions returned alongside the rest of the equipment I didn’t want.  An hour later, camera fully charged, I put the charger in, sealed the parcel, and wandered to the post office to mail it.

Since we’re talking about food, the dehydrated food we had chosen to pack was going down well, even though I was heartily sick of vegetable curry by this point in the trip – which in truth was bloody strong.   We had started a little trading of meals between ourselves like prisoners with cigarettes – “dehydrated mixed bean chilli? That’s worth at least a dehydrated cabbage and sweet potato stew, plus a small packet of jelly beans”.

Starting on the wrong foot

We had the entire afternoon ahead of us and decided to address the feet next. I am conscious that I haven’t described the actual state of the feet so far, with the assumption that some of the gory details could be spared until we were able to do something about it.

The simple fact of the matter was that they Were Not Good.  I spent the next hour with Gabe, draining my blisters from the majority of my toes and making sure they were as clean as possible before taping them up.  Now sat in the sunshine, we debated how to triage them for the next week of walking.

There are differing schools of thought when it comes to blisters, but by far the most successful is prevention – don’t get them in the first place! This involves sage advice like keep your feet dry, keep the distances down, avoid road walking, etc etc.  Being past this point (with most not all), a lot of this advice didn’t apply, nor was not walking anywhere much of a possibility – we still had half of Scotland to cross!  Once they are already in-situ, it becomes a whole other ball game.  As they get worse and the skin disintegrates past a certain point, you’re pulling the skin off as well as the tape – it becomes a strategy of containment, reducing direct friction and pressure to the area, and above all keeping it clean.

We carried two types of zinc tape with us for such purposes, the stronger was incredible stuff and physically impossible to remove without pulling the skin away underneath – beyond this, if things got really bad we had duct tape – intended for fixing broken hiking poles or the tent, which we would use as a last resort patch for our feet. Applying dressings to both feet after the blisters were drained, we carefully taped and ‘sealed’ with the stronger tape, prioritizing protection over actually being able to access and maintain them.

Departure

Now patched up, we wandered off to grab some lunch and restock painkillers. We knew we’d need to take an alternating course every couple of hours, and have enough to be able to maintain this until we hit the east coast if necessary. I must add this isn’t an advisable way to travel, however the pain was present enough the previous day for us to be concerned with making sure we had enough, if required, to reach our goal.

Lunch meant us heading for a little cafe with a first-floor balcony with a splendid view over the fells, a place recommended by the hotelier as a solid lunch stop as we left a few hours ago. We ambled in, and to our surprise they wouldn’t let us go out on to the balcony, citing ‘high wind’, with every other table inside full. It was barely more than the most leisurely of breezes, so we said we’d be happy sitting outside with the doors shut, as we just wanted a place to relax for an hour and have food before leaving. This was promptly refused. I remember deeply sighing, I didn’t much feel like an argument and decided we’d take our business elsewhere.

We found a place to eat, with it now mid afternoon, and we began to head out of the town and start heading back in to the wilds again.   The next part of our journey was towards Coylumbridge where we would begin to head south to the forest, before heading through the Cairngorms with the eventual goal Braemar. Passing a fish and chip shop, Gabe couldn’t resist ordering a portion, and we ambled at the most leisurely pace of the Challenge so far, sunkissed and enjoying walking in t-shirts again after the previous few days of mixed weather, both glad to be underway.  The path wound its way through little wooded areas and over bridges, just far enough from the road to feel we were beginning to return to the great open spaces of the first few days.

We were enjoying the sunshine so much we nearly walked past the campsite we were turning south at, and quickly found our track to the forest proper.  The walk through the Rothiemurchus forest on one of the many snaking biking tracks was a superbly peaceful part of our trip, and was right up there with our best memories of the Challenge. Often when you are in the outdoors with someone you know well you’re able to be silent and enjoy the fresh air in your lungs, and this was one of those moments.  We spent a good half hour listening to the streams gurgle, enjoying the smell of the forest and listening to the chorus of birds throughout the trees as they started their evening songs. It really was magical. The route shadowed the Am Beanaidh, the flowing water in the background adding to the ambience as we approached and passed a group of tents, likely Challengers – we didn’t see any faces, everyone seemed to be relaxing in their tents, but we’d no doubt see some of them tomorrow. About 3km later we found a perfect pitch, a nice little spot by a stream with easy access to the water, stunning views, natural wind cover and absolutely flat, all the ingredients for a good camp.

Pitching the tents was quick with us deciding to pitch snug to the lee side of a downed tree, with the last pegs going in just as a few drops of rain started to sput against the flysheet. I got the kindle out (something I hardly had time for so far) and read for a few minutes, totally relaxed as the shower passed overhead. Preparing the food, we watched the sun drop slowly and talked until we were ready to retire to bed – I even remembered to text people to let them know we were in good spirits.  Settling in for the night and now looking forward to tomorrow, one of the signature days of our route, it started to rain again.  With me now properly snug in my sleeping bag, I read until darkness and slowly drifted off.