The Three Peaks Challenge: 36 Hours of Madness

The Three Peaks Challenge is a challenge that thousands in the UK take on every year. The task is normally to climb Snowdon (the tallest mountain in Wales at 3560ft), Scafell Pike (the tallest mountain in England at 3210ft), and Ben Nevis (the tallest mountain in Scotland and the whole of the UK at 4409ft) in 24 hours. This is easily one of the most difficult mountaineering challenges found in Britain, which covers 25.7 miles of trails and nearly 500 miles of roads. Some people take on this Challenge in a small group, but many others do it as part of an organized charity event. This not only takes the worry of organizing such a large event out of your own hands, but most importantly, it allows you to raise money for the worthy cause of your choice.

I got involved in the Three Peaks after reading a forwarded email from a friend, asking for donations for one of her friends’ Three Peaks fund. I read about the event and realized that it was being held when I was already planning on being in Britain. On top of that, I saw that it was being held by the Meningitis Trust, which helps survivors of meningitis and their families. While I have not personally been affected by meningitis, I have known a few people that have felt the devastating effects of the disease, and knew that it would be a good cause to raise money for.

I was lucky to have found out about the Challenge when I did—late January—because as it was, I had to wait on a waiting list for a little while before being accepted onto the climb. This is because there are only about 50 spots for people on the climb and there are many enthusiastic would-be climbers that want to participate.

As soon as I was accepted into the climb, the Meningitis Trust sent me loads of useful information about what I should expect on the climb, how I should prepare, and how I should go about fund-raising. I immediately set to getting ready; the climb may be a 36-hour trip, but it isn’t something you can just choose to do one day and go out and do the next. It takes months of preparation on three major fronts: training, fund-raising, and organizing the kit.

Quick Tips:

Training:
Being a senior in college, I’m not exactly in the best of shape. Essentially, I just sit in front of a computer programming all day, which doesn’t exactly lend to getting in shape for mountain climbing. Having never taken on anything of such a huge magnitude before, I wasn’t really sure where to start, other than running and working out on the stairstepper in the gym. The Meningitis Trust was a great help with a full section of their Three Peaks packet detailing the best way to train for the Challenge. Unfortunately, I could not do two of the main points outlined in the packet, which were to build up stamina by running at least three times a week and take at least one or two trips into the hills/mountains before taking on the Challenge. I tried the former, only to sprain my ankle, which didn’t heal until late April, and the latter was impossible, living in Houston—seemingly the flattest place in the world—and having such a heavy workload at school.

Fund-raising:
Fund-raising was definitely the most rewarding of the preparations for the Three Peaks. My goal was to raise £375 for the Meningitis Trust by 18 June 2007, and I have already raised £500 as of the writing of this journal, with hopefully a few more donations coming in before my fund-raising page closes. It has really been an eye-opening experience to hear the number of people that have been touched by meningitis—I even found out that one of my good friends had it as a child, which I had not known before. I especially enjoyed being able to raise money for a charity that has helped JayBroek, a fellow IgoUgo member, whose son Tom had meningitis last year. When I signed up for the Challenge, I remembered reading his blog, feeling very moved by their family’s ordeal, and just wishing that I could do anything to help; this was my chance to do so, and "do something a bit crazy" as well, as Jay said!

Organizing the Kit:
There are many essentials that absolutely cannot be skimped on when planning to do the Three Peaks. A well-broken-in pair of hiking boots is top on the list; without these, you won’t be going very far, or if you have them but they aren’t broken in, you’ll be in misery.

Best Way To Get Around:

Organizing the Kit (continued):
Some people tried the climb in hiking trainers. They were allowed on Snowdon, but were not allowed to even attempt Scafell Pike. The snow at the top of Ben Nevis is normally about 6ft deep, and there is plenty of ice around as well—I certainly wouldn’t want to be walking that in anything other than boots! Waterproofs are also a must. As my journal will show, the weather can be absolutely dreadful on one or all of the peaks, and if you get wet, you will be cold, miserable, and possibly sick. That’s why it’s imperative to have a good pair of waterproof pants and a waterproof jacket.

There are many other pieces of gear that I won’t detail here that are useful, such as changes of socks and clothes in general. I found a trekking pole or two to be rather handy, especially in descents, because they help take weight off your feet and also help you to balance.

Now, for the Transportation:
Transportation is obviously a big part of the Three Peaks, given that Snowdon and Ben Nevis are more than 400 miles apart by road. Those that try the Three Peaks in their own groups normally have a designated driver that only does the driving; it is a very bad idea to have someone that has just finished climbing one or two mountains attempt to do the driving as well.

In our case, all of our transportation was organized for us, in the form of a giant double-decker coach. This coach was possibly the most cramped space I have ever been in—worse than airplanes, by far—but it got us from point A to point B and had trained, experienced coach drivers to boot. The coach itself was definitely a huge part of the mental challenge of the weekend, since we didn't have a meal, a comfy bed, a shower waiting in it. Rather, we had a cramped space of about 1 cubic inch to ourselves. My knees dug into the back of the seat in front of me, so I had to sit at an angle and find a place for my feet in between the scattered boots, trekking poles, and backpacks that filled the aisles.

As for roads, we took too many between the three mountains to count; a good map is a must.

I did not stay in the Travelodge at Cribbs Causeway by choice; rather, it was a stay born out of necessity, since the coach would be picking people up in this parking lot at 6am on Friday morning. Not wanting to stay somewhere else and have to get in a car to drive over at the crack of dawn, we reserved two rooms for six people at the Travelodge.

I was the first of the group to get there, arriving around 4 o’clock. After waiting a good five minutes at the front desk, someone finally appeared and checked me in to room 28, a family-size room with one double bed and one sofa bed. When I got to the room, loaded down with two large backpacks and various other pieces of small luggage, I struggled with the key and leaned against the door, only to find that it was soaking wet. Looking up, I could see water dripping from the already water-stained ceiling, so I put down my luggage and went downstairs to inform them of their little problem.

As soon as I got to the front desk and informed them that there appeared to be a bit of a water problem, both of the attendants’ eyes got big and one of them said, “Oh no, it’s the leak! We need to call the engineers!” This was not exactly confidence-inducing, as you may expect. Fortunately, they immediately switched my room to one further down the hall so I didn’t have to worry about what other parts of the room “the leak” might spring out of.

The rooms themselves were not exactly great, but they were clean and a place to sleep, which was all we needed. The one thing that really struck me—which later struck me about the Premier Travel Inn as well—was the bathroom. For some reason, the bathtubs seem to be made to be the least disabled-friendly as possible, since the bathtub is a good six inches to a foot higher than the bathroom floor. With the small number of disabled rooms available in each hotel, I find it very odd indeed that they would design the bathrooms like this, since there seems to be no benefit, besides making someone feel taller while showering, I guess.

I did not sleep well here at all. I just couldn’t get to sleep and stay asleep for very long; this was probably partly due to anticipation and partly to do with being able to hear motorway traffic outside our opened window. At 4am, we were all treated to the sound of shattering glass as the Harvester’s dumpsters were emptied. Needless to say, none of us were pleased and I certainly couldn’t sleep after being so startled. However, it is a necessity to keep the window open so the room doesn’t get stuffy and warm, so earplugs are a must here if you want to sleep through the night!

Really, by the time all of us finished the Three Peaks, we could have been housed in a shack and been happy about just having room to stretch out. To have a room in a hotel as nice as the Ben Nevis Hotel was just icing on the cake.

After checking in at the front desk, I wandered to the second building of the hotel - fortunately connected by fully covered walkways, since it was raining for a majority of my stay here - to look for my room. In some sort of cruel joke, they had put me in possibly the furthest possible room of the hotel, which involved walking up two flights of stairs and then navigating three hallways before I finally found the wing my room was situated in. This wouldn't have seemed too bad, if I hadn't just climbed three mountains and wasn't carrying two large backpacks!

The room was fantastic. Apparently my wing had just been renovated, and it showed. The two beds - which I had to myself, not having a roommate - beckoned to me as I dumped my stuff in the middle of the rather large room. Their puffy comforters looked like perfect cure for achy limbs. I walked over to one of the beds and noticed the view out the window, which happened to be straight across to Ben Nevis and the other mountains of Glen Nevis. I gazed at it for a while, wondering how far my friends had made it and whether they would make it to the currently un-cloud-obscured summit.

The bathroom was, well, a bathroom. Nothing particularly interesting, but the shower really was the best shower ever - complete with actual water pressure, which is sometimes hard to find in Britain - and is best appreciated after a long weekend of being sticky and, in general, gross.

The facilities that the Ben Nevis Hotel - which officially has the full name of "The Ben Nevis Hotel and Leisure Club" - offers are of quite a high standard, although I sadly didn't try as many as I would have liked. We were free to have a dip in the pool or a trip to the sauna, which I would have done if I had remembered my swimsuit! The food served at our celebratory banquet was quite good, and nothing resembled sandwiches! We had a choice of a lot of different meats, vegetables, and desserts, served buffet-style, and all we had to pay for were any drinks we had with the meal. I'm not sure what the meal would have cost on its own, but I can imagine that it would have been reasonably expensive. Breakfast was a buffet-style full English and continental breakfast. As described in my "Celebrations" entry, the bar is a great place to have a pint.

Unfortunately, I can't give more detailed information on pricing, but judging by the quality of the Ben Nevis Hotel, I would guess you would be charged a pretty penny for your stay here, but I think it is worth it!

The Harvester was the restaurant “attached” to the Travelodge at Cribbs Causeway. Since I had no other choices, this was where I dined on the Thursday night before the Challenge. I arrived at about 5:30pm, which was fortunate, since I did not realize that the Harvester has early bird specials, where you get 1/3 off your meal if you order it before 6:30pm.

In light of the Challenge I was planning on undertaking the next day, I ordered a spaghetti bolognese so I could get the most carbs possible. All meals at the Harvester come with the salad bar, which was decently stocked with most of the typical salad bar necessities, except my favourite Italian dressing.

The spaghetti itself was possibly the blandest spaghetti I have ever eaten. When it arrived, I wasn’t even sure if it was spaghetti bolognese or a ball of somewhat tomato-sauce covered rubber bands. It literally came wound up in a ball that I had to hack at. When I did manage to hack out a few noodles, they were sparingly coated in tomato sauce and tasted like…well, unflavored noodles, really. There wasn’t much taste to speak of at all. I forced myself to eat it because I had no other dinner options and because I needed the carbohydrates to get me up the mountains the next day, but it certainly wasn’t the most pleasant meal. The garlic bread that I ordered on the side was the best part of the meal by far because it actually tasted like garlic bread! Fortunately, the whole meal was 33% off and therefore only cost about £7 total.

Later, when my friends arrived, they wanted to eat as well, so we all went back to the Harvester. By this point—about 9 at night—the place was packed to the rafters. Apparently there is not much else to do in Cribbs Causeway besides hang out at the Harvester! We were told that we would have to wait 45 minutes just to get a table in the restaurant, so we chose to eat at the bar instead. This, too, was packed, and the five of us ended up sitting at a tiny table designed for 3 at most. Just to the right of us, a black cat lounged on one of the bar seats for the majority of the meal. Everyone that came by petted him, and he seemed very content, as if he ate meals at the bar every day. We decided it wasn’t bad luck for our climb if he just sat there, as long as he didn’t cross our paths!

The meals everyone else got were decent and mostly edible (mainly because they avoided the spaghetti bolognese on my warning), with the exception of the nachos. Overall, the restaurant was not too bad, as long as you got there early to avoid the wait and didn’t get the spaghetti!

Our sole stop between Snowdon, in North Wales, and Scafell Pike, in the Lake District, was the Tebay Services along the M5. Having done the trip thirty times before, the Meningitis Trust knew that these services were some of the few along British roads that had an actual restaurant, rather than food offered by the likes of Burger King, McDonald's, or KFC.

Unfortunately, our bus only called the services about ten minutes before we arrived, so they weren’t fully prepared for us. The food was cafeteria-style, so we all walked up with trays and told them which of three or four different mains we would like, what type of side, and what kind of vegetable. Some of the choices for mains were meatballs and beef bourguignon; I mainly remember these because I wanted meatballs, but they had run out, so I settled on the beef with rice and baked beans. I was one of the first people through the line, and they were already running out of food—by the time the people at the end of the line ordered, some of them ended up with a hot meal of chips and peas!

All of us needed the hot meal, though, with the number of calories we had burned already. My meal was a welcome change to sandwiches—which everyone bought here as well as a snack for Scafell—and was edible, which was all I asked for. We all ate relatively quickly and then went into the shop to buy plenty of water to refill our Camelbaks for the mountain.

On the way back from Fort William, we stopped in Tebay again, but in the services for the opposite direction of traffic. What a change to the previous visit it was. Everyone was relaxed, since they weren’t trying to wrap their head around the idea of climbing Scafell in 65mph+ winds, and the weather was absolutely beautiful. The pond outside, nearly identical to the one in the other Tebay services, was calm, rather than being whipped from one side to the other by the wind. As many people pointed out, it was quite beautiful hiking weather!

The food here was pretty much the same to the services on the opposite side of the motorway. I just had chips and gravy, being already stuffed on carbs from all the snacks they had given us on the way home. After eating, many of us went outside and enjoyed the fresh, non-coachified air by the pond, which we found was filled with little, frantically swimming tadpoles.

Overall, the Tebay services were better than your average service if you like a somewhat “home-cooked” meal. If you’re looking for fast food or a larger selection of groceries, I would look for the nearest Welcome Break or Moto (with Marks & Spencer) instead.

Located in Tyndrum, Perthshire, on the A82, the Green Welly Stop calls itself the "Gateway to the Highlands." Tyndrum is located between Loch Lomond and the fork where the A85 turns off to Oban and the A82 continues to Fort William, and is about an hour’s drive (a scenic, beautiful drive at that) from Fort William.

We stopped here so everyone on the bus could stock up on food, newspapers, and other essentials for the journey home. It was immediately clear from the number of cars and coaches in the bus stop that either it was a great place or the only place to stop! Luckily, it turned out to be the former.

The Green Welly Stop has been around for forty years in various incarnations. Apparently the name "Green Welly Stop" came from the "Green Welly Shop"—a large outdoors store—that they added to the original coffee shop and gas station many years ago. This outdoors store is the first thing that greets you as you walk towards the entrance, and had many huge racks of fleeces and walls of walking boots. I was done with my outdoorsy activities for the weekend, though, so I didn’t go in.

Just opposite the outdoors store is the Snack Stop, which is where they serve the famous Mackie’s ice cream. I liked the sound of anything that wasn’t a sandwich or otherwise stuffed with carbs, so I got a cone of strawberry dairy sorbet. It was great and I definitely recommend it.

The Green Welly Stop also offers much more for the bored traveller than the normal service station. "Goodies and Gifts" and "Whisky Galore" offer an array of Scottish foods and whisky, respectively, along with various other things like pottery and kitchenware. I didn’t acquire any whisky, since I didn’t fancy carrying it through customs on the way home, but I did get some real Scottish shortbread for my grandfather.

"The Perfect Present" was much more like the typical touristy shop that I have visited so many times in England and Scotland. There were lots of stuffed toys in kilts, T-shirts, and Scottish wool products. I saw leather bookmarks—which I collect—but did not get one, since they didn’t look to be the best quality and I wasn’t sure if I had time to get in the line by the check-out, since we were told we only had 15 minutes at the stop. I did stop and have a look at the large display of silver Celtic jewellery, which my mother adores, but they did not have any of the type of bracelet she likes.

Overall, this is a great place to get out of the car, have a snack, stretch your legs, and have a browse around the various wares the Green Welly Stop has to offer. It’s worth a look, even if it is only an hour from the beginning of your drive.

All of us woke up bright and early, slightly bleary-eyed but excited about the day ahead. After making sure our packs were in order, we headed down to the double-decker coach surrounded by half-awake people in the parking lot.

The scene around the coach looked a bit like chaos, but it was in fact relatively orderly. I handed my large pack with spare clothes to the bus drivers, who loaded it into the hold. The administrator from the Meningitis Trust, a Frenchwoman named Fred, checked my name off a list and searched for my pebble of support, which was engraved with "Tom" for JayBroek’s son. After she found it and handed it to me, I was pointed upstairs.

Upstairs truly was chaos. Everyone’s packs seemed to have exploded as they were trying to get organized and get some breakfast down them. A few of my friends that I was doing the climb with had already boarded the bus and claimed some seats, so I sat down with them and quickly realized that it was going to be a very long coach journey when the hard back of the seat in front of me attempted to take off my kneecaps. I felt these were needed for the climb, so I moved into a different awkward position and attempted to eat part of the Travelodge breakfast pack.

A hint to those travelling on coaches: it is not a good idea to try to eat cereal with milk in it on a moving coach. I managed to eat the cereal and milk that were in the bowl alright; it was the leftover milk in the un-resealable carton that was a problem. I couldn’t bring myself to drink warmish UHF milk, so I put it upright in the box the breakfast pack came in and hoped for the best. Ten minutes later, we had a puddle under our seats, threatening to coat our boots in a soup of sour milk.

Everyone on the bus was chatty for a little while, but we all slowly drifted into a state of drowsy torpor, trying to catch those precious last zzz’s before climbing the first mountain, Snowdon. I didn’t doze very well—I was too hyped up—so I just tried to keep my eyes on the road. Kat, who was sitting next to me, and I spent quite a while trying to figure out whether we had actually made it into Wales yet. It was pretty obvious when we did, since all of the signs suddenly became bilingual.

The weather was decent when we left Bristol, but it seemed that we picked out the spot with the worst weather and drove straight towards it. Soon, it began to rain and the front window of the bus quickly fogged up. Unfortunately, this coincided with us turning off the larger A-road onto smaller, windy roads up into Snowdonia. I pretty quickly began to feel carsick and had to focus on the ever blurrier image of the road ahead. After I passed the message to the front of the bus a few times—and Scott, who was sitting across the aisle from me, even got up and wiped the windows off himself—one of the men in the front seats offered me his seat. Very relieved, I took it, and once I had a clear view out the front, I started feeling slightly better.

This was only to last for a short while though, since Phil, the head safety guide who had previously given us a briefing on what to expect on Snowdon, came over the bus’ loudspeaker and told us that we had ten minutes until we arrived in the carpark and that, clearly from the weather outside the window, we would need full waterproof gear on. This announcement was the cue for chaos on the top of the bus as everyone simultaneously reached for their waterproof pants and boots and tried to put them on. Given that we had the aforementioned 1 cubic inch to ourselves, it was quite a feat that anyone managed to get anything on. I had to go back to my original seat to get all geared up, and in the process, nearly got sick again. I ended up waiting until the bus had come to a full and complete stop to finish getting ready; this wasn’t a huge deal, since about half the bus (especially the taller ones of us) did the same thing.

The weather that greeted us was absolutely abysmal. All of us got off the bus and immediately sprinted to the cover that the small building in the carpark could give us so we could make final preparations. From there, we moved to the trailhead of the Pyg Track (so named for the Pen y Gwryd Hotel that many climbers used to frequent), where we were divided into faster and slower groups. Being on firm, unmoving ground, I was feeling much better, and a bit too optimistically chose to tag along on the end of the first group. We had five hours.

The beginning of the hike was not difficult, but it certainly was wet. The driving rain did its best to try to find any gaps in our waterproofs through which it could seep. The trail had a lot of rock staircases, but nothing unmanageable—if you are feeling okay. However, the fact that I hadn’t felt well on the bus was now getting to me, since I hadn’t eaten anything before the queasiness had set in. My stomach was now devouring itself in an attempt to find the energy sources that I was supposed to have consumed on the bus.

I tried to keep up, but the group kept up a steady pace, moving over the steadily rockier terrain with no stops. I began to lag behind, and the guide bringing up the rear of the group, Tam, stuck with me, since we weren’t allowed to get behind the last guide while on the mountain. After climbing a bit higher, he told me to stop and get some food out of my pack, which I did. Jaffa cakes were the handiest, so I grabbed a packet and stuffed them in my jacket, minus one, which I ate. This didn’t have the desired effect, and by the time we climbed the ladder over the stile—where the beautiful lakes below first come into view—I was threatening to throw up on the side of the path.

This entry is continued in Peak 1: Snowdon, To the Summit!

This entry is a continuation of Peak 1: Snowdon, Carsickness Attacks.

We continued on for a little longer until my stops to gag on the side of the path became all too frequent. Tam radioed the other groups and they came to the conclusion that I should sit and wait for the second group while he ran on ahead to catch up with the first. That sounded all too fine to me, since I knew I would not be catching up with them anytime soon.

Pretty quickly, the second group approached, and I stood up and began walking with them once again. Steve, the organizer of the event and one of the safety people with this group, started talking to me and lingered on the subject of the food I hadn’t eaten for too long…and yet again, I found myself leaning over, gagging, praying not to be sick. Again, the radio came out, and after further communication, I was told that I could sit down again and wait for the last group. Kris, one of the girls that I roomed with the night before the climb, was a godsend and gave me a packet of sugary lollies, which is exactly what calms my stomach down, before she went ahead with her group.

The last group was significantly behind the others, and I got to chew on lollies for five minutes before they came into my line of sight. It was a small group, consisting of Richard, the safety guide, a woman named Tina, and Scott. Tina was going at a pretty slow pace, and understandably—only a few days prior to the event, she had been flat out on her back, unable to get out of bed. It was an amazing effort just to get out on the mountain. Scott was perfectly capable of being in the front group, but he had adopted the attitude that “we’re only as fast as the slowest climber,” and had therefore stuck behind to help Tina out.

We went at a perfect pace to get me back on my feet slowly. As we crept our way up the mountain, the wind quickly began to pick up and whatever we could see of the peaks of Snowdonia slowly faded into the cloud. At one particularly windblown outcrop, we stopped for five minutes for a quick snack. I finally managed to get half of a sandwich down me and began feeling much more like myself.

By this point, another lady, Debbie, had joined us. Her wrist had just come out of a cast, so she was very ginger using that hand—fortunately, we didn’t need to use our hands all that much on Snowdon.

I can’t say this part of the climb was incredibly taxing, because Scott, Debbie, and I would dart ahead and then get short breaks as we waited for Richard and Tina to catch up with us. As we got further and further above the lakes, we hit more and more patches of strong winds that threatened to send us flying, since we were effectively giant sails in our full waterproof gear.

About ¾ of the way to the top, in the middle of the zig-zags, we ran into the first group, who had already been to the summit and were on their descent. It was at this point that Richard stopped us to have a talk. Tina and Debbie were being sent down with one of the guides from the front group, because there was no way they would make the summit in the time. Richard was headed to the top, with at least Scott, and I was given a choice. Could I go at two or three times our current pace to the top of the summit and then all the way down again? My answer was yes—I was not feeling the effects of carsickness anymore and I certainly wasn’t going to let Snowdon beat me when my grandparents had climbed it with my then-thirteen-year-old mother. Granted, my climb boasted slightly more difficult conditions, but still.

We had a short break while the first group passed us, and then we began our sprint to the top. Soon, we passed the second group, who all encouraged us and told us that we were really almost there. Then, we hit the ridge; this is where the path joins the Llanberis track, which follows the railway line to the top. Seems easy enough, right? Just follow the railway line and you’ll be at the top in no time. Well, it wasn’t quite like that, given the gloom of the cloud that had enveloped the entire ridge and the summit itself and made it difficult to even see the rail line running below and to the right of us. More importantly, the wind along the ridge was blowing nearly at gale force; the guides later estimated that sustained winds were around 40mph, with gusts of even more than that.

We kept to the inside of the track, trying to stick to the larger rocks lining the gravely path. Richard at many points had a firm handhold on my backpack to make sure I didn’t go flying off the ridge. The drop down to the railway line was decent and would have certainly injured me, but I don’t want to think about the drop to my left. I could have fallen a good 1000 feet at least before anything caught me.

We skirted the fences surrounding the currently closed café at the top of Snowdon, clambered over a few more rocks, and found ourselves at the summit. Here, it was difficult to stand in one place for any amount of time. The wind was absolutely battering everyone there, especially those that tried to climb the little monument at the top. Scott, who had been slightly ahead of Richard and me, waited here and we all climbed to the very top together—and then proceeded to clutch onto the top, with the typical compass and arrows pointing out how far from different places we were, for dear life. I began to pull out my camera, but quickly realized it was not a good place for pictures just before Richard told me that himself.

Richard and Scott managed the staircase down alright, but Richard told me to sit and slide down. That was a very good idea, and he said it was worth looking a bit goofy to do so; I figured being goofy was a small price to pay for not learning how to fly on top of the tallest mountain in Wales.

Just below the monument, we paused to take a couple pictures to prove that we did, in fact, make it to the summit. The picture says it all, really. The background is obscured in gray clouds, and my hair is in a rather unnatural style, courtesy of the 40mph winds.

What a feeling of exhilaration though. I had made it to the top; I had conquered the mountain, its atrocious weather, and my abominable stomach.

This entry is continued in Peak 1: Snowdon, The Way Down.

This entry is a continuation of Peak 1: Snowdon, To the Summit.

The trip down was as fast as we could make it. Thankful once we got off the ridge for the slight respite from the wind, we made it to the middle of the zig-zags, where we had met the first group coming down, before having another long break. Plenty of other people were resting here on their way up the mountain, and they were in slightly better spirits than the white-haired woman we had met a bit further up the mountain. “I just cannot believe that they would CLOSE the café at the top. How rude! I want my cup of tea!” she exclaimed when Richard greeted her. All of us tried our best to suppress our laughs and comments that were along the lines of, “When you are mountain climbing, you generally don’t expect a café with hot tea at the top,” “Why didn’t you bring your own tea like we did?” or “The conditions at the top aren’t exactly conducive to sitting down and having a nice cup of tea anyway.”

After five minutes or so, we set off again. The weather cleared up as we descended further, and we could again see the two lakes below us. Richard told us that he had swum in one of the lakes—twice—and that it was so cold that he didn’t feel the cold…just pain. Yet he jumped in again! We didn’t quite have time to detour down to the lakes to see if his claims were true though, so we continued down.

The wind was no longer howling in our ears, although there were still very strong gusts—many of which we could hear before they even arrived. Most of the time, I managed to set my feet wide apart and stand somewhat still until the worst of it passed, but at one point, it lifted me completely off my feet. I landed five feet away—five feet closer to the edge—on both feet. Richard was rather surprised that I didn’t seriously injure myself and told me it might be best to just kneel down in the future, but I honestly didn’t try to take off! The wind just took me and I did my best to land before I went over the edge!

A frontrunner for the Darwin Awards 2007 passed us on his way up. He had a huge pack, with what was obviously a tent wrapped in a bright orange bag. Richard, who hailed everyone we passed and told them what a mahhhvelous day it was, asked him where he planned on camping. “Oh, the top,” he said, entirely too calmly. All of our eyes bugged out and Richard informed him that “it’s rough as a badger’s arse up there,” in an attempt to dissuade him from possible suicide. He said that if it was too bad, he might not stay up there. We didn’t hear of any deaths the next day, so perhaps his common sense hit him when he realized that if he pitched a tent, it would fly off the edge regardless of whether he was in it or not!

The rest of the walk down was relatively uneventful. Richard was great company because he kept the conversation going, so we talked about anything from politics to the latest movies we’d seen. We kept up a steady pace all the way down and Richard kept in steady contact to find out where we were in relation to the other groups. Tina and Debbie were not overtaken by the other groups on the way down, which was great, and the second group seemed to be about fifteen minutes ahead of us. We took a small break at the stile that I had felt so sickly at on my last passing, and I tried to drink down as much water as possible, mixed with a bit of Powerade, because my left calf was threatening to cramp.

We pushed as hard as we could on the last section, with Richard letting Scott go ahead as quickly as possible to try to catch the bus. Yes, the bus was planning on leaving whether we were on it or not, since we couldn’t keep the other 47 hikers waiting. We were going to be in the support van if we missed it, which would have been good for my travel sickness but bad for accessing any food or gear that I had on the bus. Blue sky made a rare appearance overhead as the car park came into view; just the sight of it literally bowled me over, as I lost my footing on a small staircase and landed with my left leg twisted. I screamed a bit in surprise as I fell down, and Richard quickly tried to help me up, which was a bit difficult because my leg had chosen that convenient moment to cramp up. This was literally only a couple hundred meters from the car park.

After I handed in my ID card—they only leave if they have the same number of ID cards as climbers that started the mounted—to the safety guy waiting, I ran as fast as I could and jumped on the bus. As soon as Richard was on board, the doors closed and we were off.

Five and one half hours up Snowdon. A bit of a long time, considering we were originally supposed to tackle it in four, but better than it could have been!

One mountain down, two more to go.

When I got back on the bus, I found that Steve, the organizer of the event, had already found a seat for me in the second row of the bus, right next to the staircase. He also let me know that I could sit upstairs for a while, but it would be advisable once we got into the Lake District that I sat downstairs so I wouldn’t get carsick again for Scafell.

I was absolutely starving, so I tucked into nearly an entire bag of potato triangles before heading downstairs. The bus driver that wasn’t driving at the moment let me sit in his seat for a while so I could stare straight ahead, even though we were on a motorway, so there certainly wasn’t very much winding.

After a while, I went back upstairs and tried to have a bit of a nap before the next peak. I dozed on and off until Phil’s voice echoed through the loudspeakers of the bus. He didn’t have very good news for us—the forecast for Scafell Pike was hideous. It was definitely going to rain, and the winds were forecast to be gale-force. For comparison, he told us that the winds at the top of Snowdon were about 40mph; the winds even partway up Scafell were going to be 65mph or higher. As the bus passed a motorway sign that said, “Strong winds, slow down,” Phil told us that we needed to have a serious think about whether we wanted to go out on Scafell at all. Because of the weather, two of the guides would be scouting ahead of the first group, so there would be less guides to take those that wanted to turn around back down the mountain. This meant that if we took our ID card when Fred, the Meningitis Trust administrator, came around, we were committing to going up the mountain to at least the ford at the 600m mark.

A lot of people on the bus went through various stages of indecision, trying to decide whether they could make it up to the ford in such…exciting weather. I was definitely one of those people, mainly because I was worried about carsickness getting to me on the windy roads in the Lake District. I took my ID card, though, and decided that I would go out on the hill as long as I wasn’t carsick at all.

It was definitely an interesting experience being on a double-decker coach on the tiny B-roads, but I made it all the way through the Lake District without any twinges of carsickness, partly because I was sitting on the stairs staring straight out the front window. That is, until Seatoller—the town we were beginning the hike to Scafell in—when someone ran in front of me, rolled down the window, and nearly got sick right there. Fortunately, they didn’t, and fortunately, I made it to the carpark with my dinner still in place.

We were about an hour late to Seatoller, since we spent so much time at Snowdon, so when we got off the coach it was nearly pitch black. Our group was relatively silent as we adjusted our essential headlamps, since we had been warned that the people of Seatoller loathe the Three Peaks Challenge because of the amount of noise the hikers make in the middle of the night, along with the fact that their village is so small that it just can’t handle the amount of traffic coming through it for the Challenge, especially in the summer months. Apparently, the Meningitis Trust has kept good relations with the village by being quiet and leaving no evidence of their being there, and we didn’t want to ruin that record.

The beginning of our trek wasn’t even on the track to the mountain, as our bus could not make it down the tiny lane leading to Seathwaite farm, where the trail begins. The walk down the darkened lane, lit only by our headlamps, seemed interminable. We were buffeted by the wind as chilly drizzle tried to find any uncovered limbs to drench. Finally, after at least a mile, we were outside the entrance to Seathwaite farm. Here, we were split into two groups again, and I smartly chose the second as I had noticed a twinge in my right hip while walking along the lane.

We made our way through the farm as silently as possible and headed into the pitch blackness beyond. It really was a shame that we were climbing at night. Scafell Pike was the featured walk on the TV Show “Wainwright’s Walks” the day I arrived in the country and the scenery all though the hike looked spectacular; we could barely see ten feet in front of us, and we could mainly just see the rocks of the path ahead.

Speaking of Wainwright, for those that don’t know (as I didn’t before watching “Wainwright’s Walks”), he was the author of the “Pictorial Guides” that covered nearly all of the fells in Lakeland. His books, painstakingly handwritten and filled with all of his own hand-drawn pictures and maps, have been bestsellers for fifty years and are essential for all Lakeland fell walkers. I have a copy of “The Best of Wainwright,” which includes 30 pages of insights into reaching the summit of Scafell Pike, the “mecca of all weary pilgrims in Lakeland.” My favourite quote of his, thus far, regarding Scafell Pike is “since this book is intended to cater for all classes and conditions of walkers, it must be added that sufferers from bad feet must expect an orgy of torture on any of these ascents (of the Pike).” Too true.

This entry is continued in Peak 2: Scafell Pike, Disappointment.

This entry is a continuation of Peak 2: Scafell Pike, The Start.

It was hard to tell how far we had really gone, since all of us kept our heads down and just kept following the path. We certainly did not go up any steep ascents, but the small climbs we did face seriously aggravated what I had previously thought was just a stiff hip from sitting awkwardly in the bus for too long. I began to find it hard to pick up my right foot at all without having shooting pains emanating from my hip, and people slowly passed me until I found myself once again at the back of the pack with Richard. We then began dropping back from the main group as I struggled onwards, knowing that I couldn’t ask to turn around because there just weren’t enough guides to do so.

Soon, we saw everyone stopped ahead, with their headlamps beaming back in our direction. Lots of chatter was coming through Richard’s radio handset, although I didn’t catch a lot of it, being solely focused on making it to the group ahead before they set off once again. They didn’t set off though, and five or ten minutes later, we were all standing in a large crowd around one of the guides.

Phil had just radioed in from the ford, which was at least another hour and a half away by Richard’s estimate. The winds there were so strong that neither he nor Michelle could stand up in them, so there was no way they were going to risk taking any of us up there. The previous plan of at least making a summit—there are quite a few before actually reaching the summit of Scafell Pike itself—was scrapped, and we were all to turn around and head back down the mountain. They kept apologizing, but we all understood that our safety was more important than making the summit.

We were about ¼ of the way to the summit at this point. I will admit that I was somewhat relieved that I would soon get to stop and have a rest, but I was also disappointed, especially for everyone else that was not struggling as I was. No one would be able to complete the Challenge on this trip; but that’s a good reason to come back and try it again next year, raising more money for the Meningitis Trust in the process!

We had about a ten minute break to eat some snacks before heading back down the mountain, and in that time, the wind picked up quite a bit and the rain began again. Richard and I ended up substantially behind right at the start of the descent because I stopped to pull out a trekking pole, hoping to take some of the weight off of my legs. My hip hurt substantially less on the downhill, since I didn’t have to pick up my feet nearly as much, so we made better time than on the uphill; however, it was still a bit disconcerting to see the glow of headlamps fade off into the distance.

The descent really wasn’t too bad, since the rain held off and the winds were not nearly as strong as those on Snowdon because we were much lower to the ground. Richard and I, both being very talkative, chatted the whole way down the hill, and we were soon back at Seathwaite farm. Just on the other side of Seathwaite, the support van was waiting for everyone to finish up on the mountain. There were five spots and four safety guides filling them, so I was offered the last spot. I hopped in and as we drove by the miserable masses, hiking through the now relatively heavy rain, I was very glad for my seat.

There are no words to describe the night spent in the coach other than “bloody miserable.” We arrived back just before two o’clock, having started the hike a little after ten, and we hadn’t planned on being back on the coach before six or seven. You would think this would give us a fair amount of time to get to Fort William and spend the day climbing Ben Nevis, but this was not the case. The bus drivers were not allowed to start driving again until 7am—understandable, since we wanted them to be well rested before taking us on the long drive to Scotland—so we were left to sit in the bus until then. Some people, once they had shed their dripping waterproofs, managed to get some sleep. I got a couple winks at best. My legs were cramped up with nowhere to go but into the back of the seat in front of me or slightly stretched out across the array of boots and backpacks in the aisle. Even my travel pillow—one that wraps around your neck—didn’t much help, and I spent most of the night listening to the rain pounding onto the windshield and feeling the wind rock the bus back and forth. Every once in a while, I’d open my eyes and see the guy sitting next to me glaring at nothing in particular, wishing he could sleep. I think both of us combined might have gotten twenty minutes of sleep, yet we couldn’t do much else, because there was no light on the bus.

Around 6am, the bus drivers emerged from their warm, dry cocoons of hotel rooms and started the bus up. Steve announced that they would soon be opening the hold and that we needed to get as ready as possible for Ben Nevis now, rather than waiting until the services. I was truly ecstatic about being able to finally change clothes, since I was still in my Snowdon kit, so I grabbed clean clothes from my backpack in the hold and went into the small 2-stall bathroom in the car park. Someone had left the tap running overnight and managed to leave half an inch of standing water in some parts of the room, which made it quite interesting trying to change!

Finally, everyone got their stuff packed up and we were underway again, this time heading for Fort William, where Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in the UK, awaited us.

Somehow, once the bus started moving, the cramped space seemed slightly less miserable. Perhaps it was because we were heading toward something, rather than idly sitting and going absolutely nowhere. Perhaps it was just because I moved to the bus stairs, which scarily seemed roomier than my own seat!

Once we were off the windy Lake District roads I would have been fine to move back upstairs, but I stayed so I could be at the front of the pack rushing for food at the services. Since we only had an hour and it would take a good half of that time for everyone to be served, it definitely paid to be in front.

The services, like Tebay, had a restaurant that offered quick, real food, rather than Egg McMuffins. My poor abused stomach wouldn't possibly have approved of a full English breakfast, as many people had, so it was a hearty meal of baked beans on toast for £3.10 for me. That's with the 20% Three Peaks discount, too!

Southwaite must have been a popular -or convenient- stop for Three Peakers, since we saw a large group emblazoned in "Cheltenham 3 Peaks" get in line after us. No word on whether they made it up Scafell, although, since we hadn't seen them the night before, they could have been doing the Peaks in the more common direction -from Ben Nevis southward.

All too soon, we were back in the baking confines of the coach (of doom). The typical wall of clouds met us at the Scottish border (being only slightly thicker than those on the English side of the border), and the grim weather showed no signs of improving as we snaked around the shored of Loch Lomond. Regardless of the weather, Lomond was still a magnificent loch, and a prominent part of the scenery to our right for a good hour.

We passed Crianlarich and the road to Oban split from the one to Fort William, which we were following. From there, it wasn't all that long before we were in the Highlands and traversing the valleys of the wondrous Glencoe. Even in rain, its numerous peaks looked magnificent - and perhaps even moreso because of the wealth of streams that had been unleashed and were rushing over the rocks and gorse towards us. Plus, it would be hard to say whether it looked better in sunshine. Has anyone ever seen it like that?

Somewhere in there, we were told the bad news about the horrendous weather that awaited on Nevis. The forecast called for no less than pouring rain, hail, lightning, gale-force winds of 65mph or stronger, a windchill of -10 degrees Celsius, and blizzard-like conditions at the top in addition to the 6 or so feet of now already on the ground there. There was little to no chance of making the summit, but we were going to try to make it as far as possible, especially the first group. A complete kit was absolutely essential -including the one thing missing from my kit, gaiters to keep snow from falling into my boots- and anyone with anything missing would have to have a serious discussion with a safety guide before leaving the carpark.

I was not all that bothered about my missing gaiters, since I was attempting to be realistic about the situation. My hip cried out every time I moved in my seat and I didn't have much hope that this would just magically go away when I stepped off the coach. After some indecision, I made up my mind to have a go at Nevis, knowing I would not be able to live with the disappointment otherwise.

Once we got ourselves organized in the car park (around 1pm), we split into two groups once again. The first group, with 29 hikers, including four of the five people I had met before the walk began, was going to have their best go at getting as far as possible, so anyone that felt they might have to turn around at any point went in the second group, where I was with about 18 other people. We set off, following the signposted Ben Nevis track. We once again found ourselves walking into the heavy drizzle - but by this point, we wouldn't have expected anything else!

This entry is continued in Peak 3: Ben Nevis, The Climb.

This entry is a continuation of Peak 3: Ben Nevis, The Brilliant Forecast.

The path crosses a river, follows it for a little while, and then makes a 90 degree turn to the left and makes a straight shot to the base of Ben Nevis, on a narrow lane between two large fields. The mud track then came to a fence - with a rather convenient set of stairs over it - and then began the actual ascent of Ben Nevis. The track wasn't quite as rocky as the one on Snowdon, and I managed to go at a fair clip and keep up with the others for quite a while. As happens on mountains, the wet trail did become steeper as we went, and I found my hip again hurting more and more as I went. A few people from our group had already turned back, but I was determined to continue up the mountain for as long as I could, especially because many of the people that we met going in the opposite direction said they made the summit. This was definitely welcome news after hearing the forecast on the bus!

I can't really explain all of the thoughts going through my head at that point. Irritation at my lack of training and my propensity for getting injured at the drop of a hat were certainly at the forefront of my mind; however, neither of these could really be helped. I trained as much as I could possibly squeeze in during a hellish semester at school, but towards the end of the term, I found myself hunched over a computer much more often than on an elliptical trainer at the gym. And I don't know about hurting myself - that just seems to be a natural talent. It wouldn't be a real trip without my companions thinking, "Oh, Kristin's broken her toe again," or "Oh, Kristin fell into a parked car and landed in the hospital with a concussion."

Competing with these emotions was the strong feeling of disappointment. As I zig-zagged my way up the mountain and found my companions one, then two zig-zags ahead of me, I couldn't help but feeling like I was disappointing all that had sponsored me. I had promised to do the Three Peaks, and here I was, having summited one and looking very unlikely to summit a second. I kept pushing on, clambering through the mud and around as many rocks as possible.

At one point, three people had to turn around and head back down the mountain with a safety guide. Tony was the last guide that could reasonably be spared until at least the halfway mark, which was another hour and a half ahead of us. Once they turned around, I knew that I should go because I was lagging behind the group, but I couldn't turn around. Indecisive, I tried to gain time on the group, whom I could see stopped above me on the mountain, but Richard quickly caught up with me and told me that while I had "done fantastically and worked really really hard," that it was time to turn around. I was shattered, because I had that far-fetched hope that I would be able to catch up and the paracetamol I had just taken would kick in and make everything better. It's funny how I was perfectly capable of being realistic at sea level, but once I got any distance up the mountain, it slowly morphed into a single-minded desire to get as far up the mountain I could.

I couldn't argue with Richard, because I knew he was completely right. The main reason for my indecisiveness about taking on Ben Nevis at all was because I didn't want to slow down the group - it just wouldn't be fair to the others that physically could make it further than I could. Plus, there was no point continuing up the mountain if I wasn't going to be able to make it down, or if I was going to permanently damage something as important as my hip flexor. So, I reluctantly turned, pulled out my trekking pole, and began picking my way down. By this point, the weather was significantly better than at the start. I never felt much wind at all on Nevis - although it certainly picked up by the halfway point so much that you could barely hear the guides on the radio.

I made it about 1/4 of the way up the mountain, and spent about three hours out on Ben Nevis.

The walk down wasn't particularly eventful, except for the sighting of the kilted man. I cannot fathom deciding to climb a mountain in the pouring rain with no waterproof pants, much less standing on top of a peak in six feet of snow and terrible winds in a kilt! All we could do was point out what a true Scotsman he was...and maybe how crazy he was, too.

The rain started up again before we walked back out into the parking lot, where giant signs had been erected saying "Congratulations!" There was also a large tent with a table full of warm beer (yummm...) which I skipped, and a lot of people waiting to pat all of us on the back. All of the smiles were infectious and helped me to realize that I shouldn't be so disappointed after all. I had attempted the Peaks and had raised £500 (it's up to £570 now) for the Meningitis Trust, and in the face of the weather conditions and everything, I had tried my hardest. I was still disappointed, to be sure, but at the same time, I was truly excited about what I had done over the weekend. And, as soon as I made it off the Ben Nevis track, I was trying to figure out when I would have another chance to try, and finish, the Three Peaks!

From there, it was off to the Ben Nevis hotel, where I took what I believe was one of the most well-deserved showers of my life, followed by one of the most well-deserved naps of my life! I ended up sleeping for 4 1/2 hours and barely woke up in time for our celebratory banquet!

The first group up the mountain actually did make it to the summit in the end, despite the forecast of doom. One of the pictures attached to the entry shows what the weather was like there, since nearly everything in the picture is white! Apparently it was snowing and there was a significant amount of snow on the ground, plus wind and a very very low windchill. Needless to say, everyone was very excited to be on the top, but thought that they spent too long in the frigid conditions once they got there! It was great to hear that at least part of the group made it.

Even though none of us technically finished the Challenge, having been turned around on Scafell Pike, we all still deserved a large celebration on finishing Ben Nevis, and that is what we got! Starting at 10pm - to give the people that summited Ben Nevis enough time to shower, etc. - we had a banquet, followed by celebratory drinks in the hotel's bar. It was great to get to get to talk to people in a slightly less stressful setting. Everyone had a blast, at least from what I could tell!

One thing that I unfortunately had not had time to think about during the climbing stage of the Three Peaks were the T-shirts that I had made specially for the event.

Both shirts were for Tom, the son of fellow IgoUgo member JayBroek, who had meningitis last year at the age of 20 months, which left him profoundly deaf. Since then, Tom has had two cochlear implants and is doing much better, and you can read about his progress at MySonTom.com, a great blog written by Jay. I remembered reading the blog in the early days of Tom’s illness, and wishing that I could do anything to help the family during such a hard time; I had since raised money for the Meningitis Trust, who had helped the family immensely, but I wanted to do something special for Tom. I had intended on wearing one shirt, which I had decorated to say "In Support of Tom, The Meningitis Trust Three Peaks Challenge, May 18, 19 & 20, 2007," on the top of each of the peaks. This didn’t quite work out, since attempting to take my jacket off at the top of Snowdon would have probably sent it flying over the edge and into the lakes thousands of feet below. Plus, it was freezing. We didn’t make it to the top of Scafell, and while I could have gotten a picture where we stopped and turned around, I honestly just flat forgot, being rather exhausted by that point. In hindsight, I should have given both the shirt and the pebble of support to my friends in the first group on Nevis, to get pictures in the blizzard at the top, but again, it just wasn’t something I thought about, since apparently no sleep + climbing mountains = addled brains!

The other shirt was a smaller shirt, which was much closer to Tom’s size. This shirt, on which was written "For Tom, The Meningitis Trust Three Peaks Challenge, May 2007" went in my backpack up each of the mountains as well. This shirt is the one that I pulled out during our banquet. To my five friends at the table, I explained what had happened to Tom and how I wanted to get everyone to sign the shirt so I could send it to him as a memento of the climb.

Everyone’s eyes lit up as I passed the shirt around the table. They all really cared about how Tom was doing now and were happy to hear of his progress as they carefully tried to sign the T-shirt with my fabric pen. Although everyone had had their own reasons for the climb, I like to think that they enjoyed hearing about a specific person that they had helped so much by raising money for the Meningitis Trust.

I can’t explain how happy it made me feel to see everyone signing the shirt. It really sent shivers up my spine to see all the joy people took in signing it, knowing how much it would mean to a little boy and his family who had gone through so much. I tried to find as many people as possible on the climb to sign it. Of course, some people had already retired to bed or otherwise disappeared, but I think I got at least forty of the sixty or so climbers and support staff to sign it.

It made me even happier to find out, after my long flight back to Houston, that Jay, Nik, and Tom had finally received their package. Again, I couldn’t stop smiling as I read this and saw how much my actions had touched them. I had finally, more than a year after first reading the blog, been able to help their family in my own little way.

In the presentation the Meningitis Trust held for us the next day, we were told that each Three Peaks climb (the Meningitis Trust holds three a year) raises over £25,000 for the charity. That's a lot of money, and means that each climber raises an average of £500. I have since received a letter in the mail saying that our climb is now over the £26,000 mark, and we still have two weeks left before we are finished fundraising! Overall, events like this raise half of the Meningitis Trust's £3 million in donations each year. That is a LOT of money, and Steve said that there is no way the Trust could stay afloat without people like us participating in their events.

During the presentation, all of the climbers were given a black Meningitis Trust Three Peaks Challenge T-shirt. Once these and the accompanying certificates - to prove to everyone that we did indeed participate in the Three Peaks -were passed out, we all went outside, where the rain had briefly stopped, to take big group pictures underneath the Ben Nevis Hotel archway. We were a sea of black shirt-wearing people, madly grinning because we were so excited about what we'd done, and more importantly, that it was over and we could now (somewhat) rest our legs!

Now you've read about my experience, why don't you have one of your own? Visit Meningitis-Trust.Org to find out more about the many events the Trust hosts each year. You can participate in their 24-hour Three Peaks, being held in September, or sign up for the Three Peaks next summer. They are always adding more events - and were telling us about the 21 Peaks in 21 Hours they plan to hold in the Lake District next year - and not all of them are hiking in the hills. You can bicycle from London to Paris, for instance. It's only a few hundred miles! I'm considering taking on the Trek New Zealand trip at the beginning of next year, and I am determined to take on the Three Peaks when I find myself in the UK again at the right time. So check their site out and do something crazy. It'll be the experience of a lifetime.