Thursday, August 15
I woke up not feeling well. My body was tired and the sore on my lip hurt . I needed to take a day off. I spent the time reading and sleeping and watching TV, following the big story about the missing girls.
We had watched other news stories with interest as well. At home, most of the news is about what the US is doing, both domestically and internationally. The perspective we tend to develop is that we are the most important country in the world, that we are central to what goes on. Here in the UK, there was surprisingly little in the news about the United States, other than the usual antiterrorism stories. Most events were happening in Europe and Africa, with some in Asia. During this week there was major flooding in Germany and eastern Europe. One story was about zoo animals trapped by the floods. I personally found the news coverage in the UK more diverse and interesting, and less biased, than what we hear at home. I was surprised -- and a little embarrassed to be surprised -- that world news elsewhere does not center on the US.
Art did walk on this day. This is his recollection.
I wasn’t feeling very well. For some reason I was all plugged up with some sort of allergy, or maybe it was the medication I take for allergies. The others in the group knew I wasn’t feeling too well, because they kept asking me how I was feeling. I just said I’m not up to par. I just seemed to be plodding along, not knowing exactly where we were going. The walk was mostly along riverbanks. David said that the property and some of the big developments around the lake were “upper crust”. The lake nearby was full of small sailboats. The roads appeared to be just as rural as on other days, but it was generally a more affluent area rather than the farmland we had seen before. I took very few pictures, if any, in the morning. But then, at lunchtime, I fell asleep. When I woke up I felt a lot better. My head seemed to be a lot clearer. We traveled into this town where this real Cinderella castle was, except they didn’t allow people in there any more. I don’t remember the reason. We stopped at a pub for something to drink and get some ice cream. We walked up the hill to the car and that was it. I should have written some stuff down.
That’s all Art has to say about an entire day of walking! It’s probably a good idea that he takes the photos and leaves the writing to me.
We found the address of a Thursday AA meeting and asked Sue at the desk for directions. I had no idea what she was talking about as far as streets and Y intersections, but I relayed her instructions to Art, and we followed them rigorously. After a quarter of a mile Art suggested we turn around. I could tell he didn’t believe I’d gotten the directions right. I said, “No, let’s go another three blocks.” The church was on the left in the third block. We found the room – a typical setup with a table, coffee cups and ashtrays. About 15 people. I can’t recall the topic, but the atmosphere was friendly and curious. We were pretty well off the beaten tourist path, so our American accents drew some attention.
Friday, August 16
Today was our last walk. Our destination was High Cup Nick. I remember now that on Monday, when we went to Wild Boar Fell, David had told us that how we did on that day would give him an idea of how well prepared we were for this last day. When we started out walking, though, I had forgotten about David’s comment.
As had become the pattern, the first three or four miles were through farmland, level or on a gentle upward incline. Cross the field, negotiate the stile, traverse the next field, open the gate. Avoid the mud puddle if possible, or try to stay along its edges. I gave frequent silent thanks for the quick-drying nylon convertible pants Art and I had bought at REI before we left home. For the thick socks and the comfortable waterproof hiking boots. The mud slowed us in our walk, but it wasn’t the least bit uncomfortable.
We turned toward an upslope, saying good morning to a muddy-booted farmer. As we passed, David fell back and conversed briefly with the farmer in a low voice. To our left, up the grass-draped mounds of hillside, I saw dark moving specks, a small herd of cows. We turned to angle around the closest hill, setting our course to pass at some distance to one side of the herd. I kept my eye on the animals just in case. I remembered our first day’s walk, when David’s dog Tarn had been chased by the cows on the way to Wild Boar Fell. The dog was on a short leash now. I suspected the farmer had told David to avoid the hillside herd.
As we crested the first hill the view opened up to a series of lower slopes, beyond which was a valley narrowing to a notch at the far end like an oversized gully that had been worn away over the ages by water falling from the plateau above it. Across the valley was a set of hills like the ones we were now traversing. I assumed we’d be descending into the valley, crossing the stream, and climbing the hills on the other side.
For the next mile or so we picked our way across the hillslope, descending gradually. I suspect this was easier on Art’s hips than the top-to-bottom approach we’d used on the first day, when we were descending from Wild Boar Fell. But it was harder on me. Heading across and down a hill meant that my feet were never at the same level; there was always a downhill foot and leg.
I was reminded of a story once told to a friend of mine who’d lived her entire life in the northern suburbs of San Francisco. On seeing cows grazing on the hillside for the first time, she wondered aloud how they managed to keep their balance. She was told by a local that the cows had been bred especially for hills – on one side of their bodies, their legs were shorter! On this descent, I could have used a shorter uphill leg.
I stepped carefully and lagged even further behind than usual. It was a tiring stretch, and, for the first time on this trip, it was uncomfortably warm. As I gauged the distance left to walk to get to the valley streambed, I heartily wished I hadn’t decided we should undertake this “moderate” walking holiday. I visualized myself running out of my glucose-enhanced water, running my blood pressure up to dangerous levels. I felt the edge of fear again.
We reached a flat spot on the side of the stream, dropped our packs and ate lunch. Tarn dashed into the water and out again, shaking himself off within six feet of the group. I checked out the hill on the other side of the stream. I could make out a trail snaking upwards. An actual marked path would be a treat.
Finished with our lunch, we readied ourselves for the afternoon walk. I scanned the streambed, wondering where David would have us cross.
Art, too, saw the trail. “Actually,” he says, “it was a wall with a path alongside of it that stretched all the way up the hill. It looked like the boundary of some property. When we started off and did not head that way, I knew where we were going.”
Instead of the trail I’d seen, David started off toward the long end of the valley, to the notched cliffs. “Remember on the first day at Wild Boar Fell,” he asked us, “when I said that I wanted to gauge your level of fitness?” We did remember. David continued, “I know that you can all do this climb. And when you reach the top you will be very, very satisfied and proud of what you’ve done.”
I was horrified. Between us and “the top” was a sharply rising, scree-covered slope. The last 50 feet looked like a cliff from where we sat. I remembered the trouble I’d had negotiating the limestone pavements two days earlier. I remembered how often this week I’d had to catch my breath on the uphills. I recalled how I’d run short of glucose on the second day. I thought about my fear of falling from heights. This approach, this path ahead, was insurmountable for me. I was sure of it.
Against my wishes, my feet moved forward. My hands telescoped my trekking poles. David said, “Those will be useless to you. Keep them short.” We moved up the gentler part of the slope near the floor of the valley. Not too bad. At the first field of limestone scree, Marcella and Dani moved quickly; they were beyond the rocks within a couple of minutes. Sara and Kathi and I progressed more cautiously. David said, “Stand up. Just walk from rock to rock.” I couldn’t do it.
I crouched, moving like an animal stalker, ready to catch myself when the rock magnets tried to suck me into the crevices. Several times I stooped, reaching forward with my arms to secure myself before I could persuade my feet to move. David went on ahead, checking on the group members out in front, then came back to keep an eye on Sara and me. Art stayed behind us. One of the kinder things he’s done in our years together. I know that, without me, he would have gone ahead with Marcella and Dani. Love shows itself in the oddest ways.
Art recalls this. “As Sara, Kathi and Linda were climbing, they seemed to pick where there were large rocks to place their feet. I chose to go where there was more grass and walked more leisurely. When David told Linda to get rid of the poles, I took them from her and tied both pairs onto my pack.”
Mercifully, we moved beyond the first rock field. Now we were climbing a steeper hill, but on this one the rocks were smaller and I was more confident in my footing. I looked back momentarily. Bad idea. I saw the valley receding, the lunch spot by the stream much smaller. I doubted now there was another path.
Just past the rocks, Sara stopped. “You go ahead,” she said. “I feel a little lightheaded.” I reached for my glucose-treated water and handed it to her. “No,” she said. “That’s yours. Really, I’ll be fine in just a minute.” I shook my head. “Nope. I’m glad to have it for you.” We sat on flat rocks. Sara took the bottle and drank from it. Within three minutes she handed it back to me. “That really works, doesn’t it?” I nodded. We continued on. I was grateful to feel good. Grim mentally, but good physically.
Art continues, “Just before the last part of the ascent, we all stopped and I took a few pictures. I could see that things weren’t going to be getting easier. The angle of the cliff was steepening. As we started out, I stayed behind, knowing that I might not be able to help, but at least I could point out the spot where they fell from! As we were going up I kept repeating over and over to myself, “Linda, don’t look down.” I know how afraid of heights she is, and this was no place to freeze up. However, she and Kathi and Sara followed David’s direction and climbed along the least treacherous route – the sign of an expert guide.”
The final 50 feet on this ascent was a scramble. I could see handholds and footholds, and my body hugged the hill as I ascended. I heard David tell me to stand up. I ignored him. I concentrated on my breathing – as deep and slow as I could make it, considering the exertion. I could feel the ground under my knees, my torso and my elbows. I reached for clumps of hillgrass; I guessed that if they were still thriving here, they had the roots to bear part of my weight. My toes gripped the ground as I pushed upward. Beyond my body now, I heard calls of encouragement from Dani and Marcella who had already reached the top. I knew with certainty that without my years of walking I would have collapsed, lying on the hill until a helicopter or a rescue team came for me.
My body surprised me. It was there for me. And the fear of falling from a height was irrelevant. It was too late to even acknowledge fear.
I grasped a flat stone at the edge of the plain that topped the hill and hauled myself over. In front of me, half a dozen wild horses grazed in a peaceful field or drank from the small stream. I had expected something quite different – another rough trek or another hill. Certainly not this pastoral setting. I looked behind me. The creek where we’d eaten lunch looked impressively far down, the valley walls daunting. Had I seen this first from the top, where I now stood, I would never have believed myself capable of such a physical accomplishment. David had told us we’d be proud of ourselves. I was.
We celebrated the end of the climb by filling water bottles from the stream and pouring them over our heads to cool down. We sat on the rocks near the precipice and watched the stream as it reached the edge and dropped over the side in a trickling waterfall.
The walk back to the van, another four miles, was an easy hike. The trail ran near the edge of the valley wall, so Art was able to get a lot of photos. David paced the group to wait for Art. At one point he gave us a quick map-reading lesson, using his topographic map to show us how to navigate. David volunteers with the Penrith search and rescue team. He said he’d been out many times in darkness and fog, and topographic map reading was an essential skill. “You wouldn’t want to walk right off the top of High Cup Nick.” We asked him about a recent search. He said a fellow had been murdered by a jealous husband. The team knew the victim had been cut up and his parts put in a plastic bag. Their search was successful. They found the bag in a stream. Most of the searches end on a positive note, finding a cold and lost hiker. Occasionally they’ll find a body, victim of the weather or a heart attack.
Looking into the valley as we walked along the top, I found it hard to believe I’d been down there just an hour or so before. Even now, ten months after the day we hiked up High Cup Nick, I’m surprised and gratified that I was able to do it. I put Art’s photos for that day on my computer’s screen saver, so I get to be reminded of what we achieved.
The stiles seemed almost routine as we made our way back to the van. On one, a stack of large stones with a chink on top to pass through, my negotiation was awkward. I’d turned my body around to descend but my left foot was still on a rock on the other side of the stile. David said, “Bring your other leg along with you.” I laughed then and every time I thought about it for the rest of the hike. I must have been really tired.
We said our goodbyes to David when we got back to the hotel. The group had contributed to a tip and left it in the front seat of the van. David seemed genuinely surprised and appreciative. He told us we’d been a good group. He probably says that every time. It didn’t matter. This had been an eventful week, at least from my perspective, and I was glad he’d been our guide.
Our group’s dinner was a nostalgic affair that included the exchange of email addresses and promises to keep in touch. It seemed like we’d known each other longer than just five days. Since our return home we have, in fact, kept in email contact. At first each of us shared how the rest of our vacation had gone. Just before the holidays, Sara recommended a couple of books; I bought them both, read one, and have the other waiting. Then, in January, Art and I sent a message of goodwill, as our country’s administration headed towards war with Iraq minus the support of most of the rest of the world. I’m glad we had those six days where three Americans, a Canadian, a Yorkshireman, a German, a Scot and a Dutchwoman were simply friends taking a walk together.