Highs and Lows

I've been investigating the terms of the newest microadventure challenge, the Summit to Sea traverse from the highest point to the lowest point in your area.  Given that the highest point in Wisconsin (Timm's Hill) is about 150 miles from the lowest point (Lake Michigan), and given that both points are a multi-hour drive from my current location, I decided to narrow my search to something more manageable in the short-term: St. Croix County. This is where I temporarily reside in an underground lair commonly referred to as my parents' basement until I find the time and mental stamina to undertake a househunt.


So. St. Croix County, western Wisconsin. A spot o' Googling later, I discovered that the highest point in the county is a hill just north of the town of Wilson.  The lowest point is the county's southwest corner, on the east bank of the St. Croix river. A journey of about 38 miles through Wisconsin's rolling farmland lay between the two points, a more than manageable distance, and, as it happened, my mother was driving past Wilson the next morning en route to her Retired Hippie Meeting, otherwise known as a Tuesday late-morning Yoga class. A plan comes together.


Clocking in at a modest 1320 feet, or 402 meters, the hill in question rises up above Wilson on 310th street.  I hopped out at the top and got my bike ready for the day's journey.  The weather was perfect -- warm but mild, sunny, low wind.  I consulted my map one last time and hit the road.

 

 

I swung south of I-94, then headed west.  Wisconsin is pretty straight-forward: it's mostly laid out in a grid, with about a mile between each cross road, a big patchwork of square sections of fields with quiet roads separating acreage. Traffic was minimal, and mostly I just saw a lot of this:

 

 

 





And also this:

As the sign suggested, I passed a number of Amish farms, one with a horse-drawn plow tilling the fields.  Above the field a red-tailed hawk soared at a low altitude hunting for mice or snakes amongst the crops, with three red-winged blackbirds trying to chase it away. 

Despite the relatively short height difference between the highest to lowest point, this part of Wisconsin is an endless series of hills, rippling across the landscape in unyielding numbers. None are particularly tall, but after climbing the twentieth hill, I was starting to lose enthusiasm for my home state's landscape; the blissful descents lost their magic as each one boomeranged back into an imminent ascent.  As I neared River Falls, about 32 miles into the journey, the beautiful hills that I love had become THOSE BASTARD HILLS THAT I HATE.  But, going through River Falls meant that I was nearly there. Just a few more miles and I'd begin the final descent to the St. Croix River.

I headed west on M along the southern border of St. Croix County. Avoiding a final hill, the tallest I'd yet seen, I cut one mile north and got on a road which, luckily for me, became the very road I was searching for, which led to the public access beach where my journey ended. The road sloped gently down toward the river, so naturally the only option was to coast downhill with my arms out to the sides in full wingspan extension -- rather a spectacle. I took a sharp left down a steep hill to the beach, where the river opened up in all directions. Made it!

 

 

 

 

Along for the ride.

 

So what CAN I do?

 

Summit to Sea (or hill to river?) challenge: completed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A 30th and a 1st

I went up Corn Du aged 29 and came down Pen y Fan aged 30.  Here's what happened in between.

***

Until fairly recently, I couldn't decide how to celebrate my 30th birthday.  Then, I got it in my head that I wanted to go up Pen y Fan with some friends.  Then, I decided I wanted to do it alone.  Then, I learned about microadventures.  Then, these things slowly combined until the following plan took shape: go on a solo microadventure nearby the night before, then head up the mountain first thing in the morning.

Not sure that I would be able to pull off sleeping outside, in the middle of nowhere, alone, I did what I always do in these situations: conducted extensive nervous internet searches.  Satisfied that a) lots of other people, including other women, did solo excursions, and b) very few of them seem to have died or been horrifically disfigured as a result, I started to get more used to the idea -- but not before sending a jittery email to Mr. Microadventure himself, Alastair Humphreys, detailing my fears, writing that "escaped convicts and bear maulings come to mind, for example; and yes, I know there aren't bears in Wales, but I can see the headlines now: 'AMERICAN PHD STUDENT MAULED BY ESCAPED CONVICT'S PET BEAR')."  Reassured on all fronts, I went ahead with the plan.

On June 26th, the day of departure, I spent the morning and early afternoon participating in the second day of a conference at Cardiff University on Music in Nineteenth-Century Britain.  I had put together two panels on 19thC music and literature, one of which I chaired, and on the other I was a panelist.  But, when the delegates went off for the afternoon on a trip to Cyfarthfa Castle, I seized the moment.  Shouldering the pack I had stashed under my desk, complete with the microadventurer's few but instrumental needs, I bid adieu to my officemates, and loped off to catch the next bus to the Brecon Beacons.

In the interest of time and keeping my nerves to a manageable hum, I decided to take the easiest and most obvious route up the hill, starting from the Storey Arms.  I arrived in the late afternoon, but the sun was still high in the sky and shining brightly amongst the clouds; the wind was gentle and the air was warm.  Conditions were perfect.  Figuring I had at least five hours of light left -- plenty of time to go up and high-tail it back down should I change my mind -- I headed up the path.

Before long, I discovered that this particular route was a prime example of standard British Relentless Uphillery.  "Switchbacks are for the weak!" -- British trailblazers.  This meant, however, that the views got pretty spectacular pretty quickly.  Up and over the first small hill, and across a little stream, the path continued all the way up to Corn Du, stretching out before me across the hillside.

 

 

 

Because of the aforementioned Relentless Uphillery, the journey was relatively short, and before long I was at the top.

 

 

 

 

 

The views in all directions were spectacular, with the hills of the Brecon Beacons unfolding layer upon layer in the distance, gradations of green slowly fading into the horizon, valleys rolling out endlessly below.

 

 

 



 

 

Having noticed an ominous cloud above Pen y Fan but having also noticed that it was moving in the opposite direction, and looking to make use of the hours ahead, I decided to head back down Corn Du and along the ridge past the Tommy Jones obelisk down to Llyn Cwm Llwch.

 

 



 

Circling around south to the shore of the lake, I was feeling rather warm and a bit grimy from my climb.  The clear, still water was outrageously tempting to me, so I crouched down at the edge to investigate.  The water was teeming with life, from various insects to newts to dozens of tadpoles...

 

 



 

 

...to leeches.  After scaring all the tadpoles away by putting my hands in and splashing water on my face and arms, I noticed no less than five small leeches slowly wriggling towards the source of the disturbance, followed by one rather large specimen, at which point I made up my mind: no swimming.  This isn't a Victorian sickbed; I'd like to hang onto as much of my blood as I can, thankyouverymuch.

 



 

 

So instead, I sat in the sun, ate the sandwich I had brought, marvelled at the view of Corn Du and Pen y Fan, and considered my options for the advancing night. 

 

 





 

 

Still not totally convinced that I was actually going to pull this off, and not willing to make myself go through with it if I didn't want to, I tried to sift through the various impulses I was feeling in order to determine what I really wanted.  People, I said to myself, do solo trips all the time, to much more remote parts of the world.  There is very little danger in sleeping wild, when it comes down to it; I'm probably far more vulnerable walking home through Cardiff after dark, which I do freqently and without thinking twice.  My fears about being a lone female were allayed by the realization that, once tucked away in my bivy, I would be anonymous and androgenous.  And what is inspiring my fear, anyway? I wondered.  Is it a set of valid concerns, or is it the Culture of Fear in which we live that tells us danger is lurking around every corner, especially for women?  So, sitting by the lake, under the ridge, I decided that I was going to do it.  I was going to sleep outside tonight, by myself, on the eve of my 30th birthday.  And, furthermore, I decided that I was going to do this on the summit of Corn Du.

 

***

 

Determined, I climbed back up to the top of Corn Du and surveyed the scene.  A handful of hikers came and went, crossing the saddle over to Pen y Fan before descending back down to the road.  Mostly, though, it was just me and some sheep.

 

 

 

From the north end of the summit, the memorial obelisk on the ridge continued to catch my eye, as have all references to death and the mountains over the last six months.  I suppose it will always be this way now.  In January, my friend Tom was doing some winter climbing with his girlfriend and four others near Glencoe, Scotland.  After a spectacular day up and out, they got swept away in an avalanche while descending Bidean nam Bian.  The mountain claimed Tom as its own, and as the momentum of the avalanche came to an end, so did his remarkable life, and the lives of three others, all young, dynamic, intelligent, talented, why-can't-I-be-more-like-them sort of people.  Tom and I had lived together for two years while doing our PhDs in Hull, until I moved to Cardiff last September.  We had quickly become good friends, bonding over a shared sense of humor, love of the outdoors, and taste in music.  Tom was a gifted athlete and a committed mountaineer, climber, long-distance runner, mountain biker, and skier, among other things, and was happiest in the mountains.  At his funeral, it was striking how frequently the word "adventure" came up in the descriptions of Tom, and we all agreed that the best way to honor his memory was to commit to more adventures of our own.  So when I first came across the microadventure concept, the enthusiastic response I heard in my head was Tom's voice, not mine.  The desire to tell Tom about my (micro)adventure was intense, and heartbreaking.  But then I remembered an article I read by a skier who had lost friends to the great outdoors, which he concluded by saying that the people we lost will always be found at the top of a mountain, and when we find ourselves at a summit, we get to spend some time with them again.  So, sitting on the top of Corn Du, watching the sunset over the Brecon Beacons, I spent a little time with Tom.

 

***

 

Before long, the sun had disappeared behind the hills, and night closed in.  I moved over to the eastern side of the summit where there was less wind and set up my gear.  Feeling fine, but already looking forward to the morning, I wormed my way down into my bivy and waited to fall asleep.

 

 

 

Sadly, I would be waiting for a very long time.  It quickly became clear to me that I was cold -- not cold enough to worry about my safety, but cold enough to be pretty uncomfortable.  As I lay awake, I was of two minds about the cause of my predicament: was it my fault for not investing in a good, warm sleeping bag and opting to take one of my parents' old and now-unused bags instead?  Or was I blameless because, after all, the bag in question was purchased for camping in the Wyoming mountains, much higher up than the highest point in the UK?  The jury remains out.  I counted sheep; I went through all the Gram Parsons lyrics I could think of; I tried to clear my mind of all thoughts.  At intervals of what felt like hours, I checked my watch, only to see each time that no more than 30 minutes had passed.  I fell asleep occasionally, but not for long.  This would be my second sleepless microadventure.

 

I was surprised, however, to find that I had little fear.  I felt perfectly safe, and the only mental discomfort I experienced was a vague feeling of situational claustrophobia, in the sense that up on this hill, in the dark, with no phone signal, I didn't have a lot of options other than to just stick it out.  I didn't want to do anything else, but the knowledge that there wasn't a lot I could do if I did want out was occasionally discomfiting.  I thought about other female outdoor sleepers, Tom's late girlfriend being one of them, and wondered if they went through the same process on their first solo run.  Mostly, though, I wished I could sleep.

 

Finally, I peeked out at the horizon and saw light spreading across the hills.  Jubilant, I sprung from my bag, did a couple of jumping jacks, and wished myself a Happy 30th Birthday.  Shoving my gear into my pack, I went down the eastern side of Corn Du, across the saddle, and up to the top of Pen y Fan, just as the sunrise was beginning to spill pinks and oranges across the sky.

 

 

The blurry and bleary-eyed birthday girl, wedi blino ond da iawn.

 

 

I sat and watched the sunrise, feeling elated at having completed my first solo microadventure (and only my second night in a bivy bag).  No bear maulings, no malevolent ancient Welsh spirits -- just me ringing in my thirties in the best way I could think of.  The post-PhD job hunt has been stressful, and my impending return to the US grows ever more emotional with each passing day, but for the moment, none of that mattered.  It was just me, Pen y Fan, and the sunrise.

 

Once the sun was above the horizon, I headed back down the mountain, reaching the Storey Arms in time to catch the first bus back to Cardiff.  I slept most of the way, then got home, hung out my dew-wet gear, took a hot shower, and collapsed into bed for a three-hour snooze.  Rising in time to grab a coffee from the Summerhouse in Bute Park on my way to the final afternoon panels of the conference, I fell back into life, smiling inwardly at the knowledge that mere hours before I had been sleeping on the top of Corn Du, then standing on the top of Pen y Fan.  That evening, I met my friends at La Lupa for food and vino.  It was a fantastic birthday and a great microadventure, and if this is a sign of things to come, I can't wait to see what else 30 has in store for me.

 

***

 

And that's how I went up a mountain 29 and came down 30.

 

The end.  Or is it the beginning? 

 

 

 

 

















Solstice Microadventure

Three intrepid first-time microadventurers abandon the confines of the Cardiff University campus for the great outdoors. Armed with a map, a compass, the appropriate gear, a shared love of Mother Nature, and the inability to turn down the possibility of a good story (we are academics in the English Department, after all), they headed out into the Great Unknown*.


*Commonly referred to as “the Waterfall Woods” in the Brecon Beacons, an area which is, in fact, very well-known indeed.


SUMMER SOLSTICE -- FRIDAY, 21 JUNE, 2013


The John Percival Building hummed along as usual. I shoved my carefully-packed backpack under my desk and headed off to Yet Another Meeting about Yet Another Thing. After this customary ritual was completed, I met my fellow microadventuring friends, Rhys and Jenn, to discuss transportation plans. Deciding on a train from Cathays to Aberdare, then a walk to Pontneddfechan, we ate lunch with some incredulous colleagues who sent us on our way.


Feeling excited, optimistic, and energized, we got off the train at Aberdare and started walking. After a brief false start due to my poor navigational skills, we got on the Cynon Trail and headed for Hirwaun. Spirits were high, the sun was shining, and the conversation was lively and full of belly laughs. At Hirwaun, we branched off onto a footpath heading up into the hills through some fields. The grass was marshy and filled with sheep poo but the sun shone on and we were happy to be outside. We climbed, deep in conversation, and then seemingly all of a sudden (though it must have been gradual), a spectacular view of one of Wales’ green, lush valleys spread out behind us like a living watercolor. What a reward!

 

Nearing Pontneddfechan, we descended via a public bridleway which cut down into the Afon Mellte gorge. The view remained stunning – or perhaps even grew increasingly more so – and before long the sound of rushing water greeted our eager ears. Walking the last half mile or so along the Mellte path, we headed for the village, hungry and ready for a rest. Finding the Angel Inn as quirky and accommodating as we’d hoped, we settled in for some bwyd and cwrw, giving our feet and shoulders a brief respite.

With our batteries suitably recharged, we headed back out, this time along the Neath gorge trail to the Sgwd Glawdus waterfall. We stopped for awhile, taking it in and dipping our feet in the clear, cool water. Then, with the sun lowering in the sky, we got back on the main trail and headed north, hoping to find the perfect spot to sleep under the stars.

Passing waterfall after waterfall, each as beautiful as the one before, we tried a couple of potential sleeping spots up the hill from the river, only to be driven away by clouds of what were probably midges. With the light failing and the trail rocky, slippery and muddy, we decided to abandon the river and head for higher ground. We made it to the next main road after dark and crossed via an old stone bridge, heading east back towards the Mellte, eventually curving south again. After a number of failed attempts at finding the right sleeping spot, we snuck into a field along the road whose edges were lined with trees and long grass; the field was, from what we could tell in the dark, unused, and there weren’t any suspicious lights nearby. Figuring that we couldn’t be seen from the road, and that we’d be gone before anyone would spot us from the other direction, we unpacked, bivvied up, and settled in for the night. Exhausted, sore, hot, and exhilarated, we cocooned ourselves into our bags, pleased with our successful first microadventure, and ready to give this bivy malarkey a try.


Soon after, a light, misty precipitation began to fall. It was actually refreshing – having spent much of the day overheated, and feeling a bit grimy, I welcomed the gentle rain on my face, finding it calming. Then the mist turned to a drizzle, then the drizzle turned to a steady rain, then the steady rain turned into a downpour. Then it poured. And poured. And poured. The rain against my bivy sounded like someone playing a snare drum directly next to my head. Despite my best efforts, rivulets of rain came in through the opening of my bivy, soaking my pillow and the arm I had under my head. My body remained surprisingly dry (thanks, Alpkit!) but there was no escaping the rain – it pooled in my rain jacket, vainly thrown over my pack and shoes; it splashed against my face under the bivy where it ricocheted off my mat. There would be no sleep tonight.


The rain finally let up to a gentle drizzle around 3:30, and I was able to sleep for about an hour. Then, with the light gathering, we declared the rain victorious. In the morning light, we could see that the field we had chosen was filled with yellow flowers, gently sloping off downhill into another beautiful valley view—or what would have been a beautiful valley view, were it not for the rain, cloud, and mist. Shoving our soaking wet gear into our packs, and shaking a slug out of my right shoe, we trudged back down the hill to the quiet, sleeping village, hoping for good news about the first bus out of town. Of course, no such good news was to be had, but we did pass a window full of kittens. Bonus!

After a couple of hours and a surprising amount of transportational dead ends, we managed to get to Neath railway station, where we got the next train to Cardiff. Back home, I hung my still-dripping gear out to dry, took a hot shower, and went to bed at 9 a.m.


And I forgot to mention, once we got up and started walking into the village, it stopped raining. The sunrise was beginning to paint some colors across the sky. And remember, it hadn’t started raining until after we had settled in for the night, just after 11. Oh, timing!


So we didn’t see the moon, which was nearly full, or the stars, or a beautiful sunset or sunrise. We didn’t sleep, and we returned home cold, wet, and nauseous from sleep deprivation. But, in the end, it doesn’t matter. By the time I was crawling into bed, I was already laughing about it all. We had a beautiful walk, a fantastic time, and a memorable first microadventure (and first night in a bivy). We’re all converts. We’re a bit wiser now. If anything, the taste of how it could have been if it hadn’t rained has overpowered the memory of the rain itself. And, as Rhys said, it’s good we got this out of the way, as it will only get better from here.


Until next time…