…continued from Microadventure #8: 3 Nights on Dartmoor, day 2
I awoke on day three to find that the third night had not been good to me. One of the shock-cord tie-outs on the tarp had rubbed against the rocks in the night and eventually snapped allowing rain to periodically splash me in the face through the opening of the bivvy bag. I’d taken action by rolling over to point the breathe-hole toward the sleeping mat to prevent getting any more wet. But with all my clothes already soaked from the day before, and with the howling wind, it was not a warm night. I didn’t sleep well. And when I awoke in the morning I realised I’d made a catastrophic mistake in my choice of location.
On Dartmoor, you see, the wind invariably seems to change direction in the night. That was part of my reasoning for building the shelter I had: A lean-to against the rocks with no openings. The naturally formed corner in the rocks already protected me from the wind on two sides, and the tarp protected me from wind on the other two sides when it inevitably changed. I’d put a lot of thought into the wind protection and it had worked pretty well in that regard I suppose. But what I didn’t consider was the rain. Up against a tall rock formation the rain was hitting the rocks, then rolling straight down to where I was camped. And of course a tarp can’t be made flush against the rocks, so the water carried on down and into my camping area.
Worse still, the area I was in was flat with a raised lip all the way round. This should probably have been a warning to me: This area became a pond of sorts in wet weather. A pond with me sleeping in the middle of it. My coat was waterlogged when I woke up, as if it had just come out of the washing machine. So too were my “waterproof” trousers. And my socks, and my shoes. Imagine getting up in the morning, going to your washing machine to find your only clothes weren’t drained after washing and so are waterlogged. I don’t mean damp and I don’t mean wet. I mean waterlogged, with water pouring out of them as you pick them up. And imagine having to put them on. Outside, in the cold howling wind that’s so strong it hurts when the rain hits you. That was me on the morning of Sunday 3rd May.
My rucksack was soaked too, but that was the least of my worries. Getting into a sleeping bag with soaked clothes on isn’t ideal. Putting that sleeping bag inside of a semi-breathable bivvy bag is even less ideal, as the bag can only breathe so much water each night, and that’s not much at the best of times. But since the tarp had failed to keep me dry with rain water bouncing off the rocks and soaking me, the bivvy had been unable to breathe at all overnight, and all of the water I’d taken into the sleeping bag with me on my clothes was now on both my clothes and all over my sleeping bag. It too was drenched.
So there I was on Dartmoor in gale force winds desperately trying to fold my tarp up to put it away, and facing a big decision. Taking the quickest route possible straight back to the car (quickest, but not the most direct route) I had an 18 mile hike ahead of me. Or the alternative was risking hypothermia doing another night of camping with a soaked bivvy bag, sleeping bag, sleeping mat, tarp and clothes.
This seemed like a risky idea. Cutting my adventure a day short and hiking 18 miles seemed like the more sensible idea.
I looked at the distances I’d covered on the map on Friday and Saturday. Both days worked out at pretty much exactly 10 miles each, and each day had taken roughly 5 hours to cover. But then I’d not been in a rush either day and I knew I had more speed than that in me. But to cover nearly twice that distance in a day I knew I would tire, and I knew my pace would drop. And I was certain I wasn’t fit enough for an 18 mile hike really, and on top of all of that I’d already covered 20 miles over the past 2 days. The chances of me covering 18 miles before it went dark seemed slim. Very slim. But it was that, or risk freezing in the night.
So… I bit the bullet and set off at warp 9 hiking speed. I knew if I was going to make it before nightfall I was going to have to not mess about at any point, even when it came to crossing streams. At the first ford I made an executive decision: My feet were already soaked, and they weren’t going to get any wetter by walking straight through the stream, so I rolled my trousers up and marched straight through. I reached Hangingstone Hill in record time where I stopped for an energy bar snack, and with slightly better visibility than the previous day was then able to find the path I should have been following. I followed this all the way to Quintin’s Man where I stopped for another energy bar and some water. I gaped at the map and realised that, if I was able to keep this pace (which I knew full well I wouldn’t be able to) I’d reach the car by 6pm that evening: A good three hours before sunset.
I put on my grim “it’s-time-to-get-out-of-here” face and carried on back through the streams at Little Varacombe, enjoying the cold of the water on my sore feet and knees, up Sittaford Tor hill, down to The Grey Wethers again, back to the bridle path that Mr and Mrs OS had drawn so badly, and then realised quite suddenly that my feet were getting very sore from blisters. Marching through each stream with no attempt to keep my feet dry was, clearly, not proving to be the greatest idea ever. I stopped for some lunch thinking that might help my feet settle down a little. My knee was hurting pretty badly by now too, having covered 10 miles in less than three hours.
After lunch I stood up to carry on, but neither my blister nor my knee felt much better. I took two steps and then a stabbing agony in my foot told me the blister had just burst. I stopped again to administer first aid, only to discover I’d never included any blister patches in my first aid kit. What the hell? How could I make such a massive oversight?! I started knocking back painkillers instead. I was over half way now, and I’d done it in just over a third of the time I had estimated! I couldn’t give up now, so I limped on.
The next mile felt like three: I simply couldn’t work out which leg to limp on. The ruptured blister on my right foot made me limp to my left leg, where my knee would send an electric shock of agony which would make me limp back to my right leg. I took more painkillers in the hope of dulling the accumulating aches and pains, but at twice the maximum stated safe dosage for both paracetamol and ibuprofen I was already seriously pushing the limits.
I found myself stopping more and more often for water, snacks and painkillers.
At Postbridge I picked up the road to Widecombe In The Moor, then at Lower Blackaton I made my way back onto a bridle path with a steep 100 metre climb up followed by a 170 metre descent into Widecombe In The Moor. Every single step was agony, my pace had been slowing ever since I’d stopped for lunch and I’d lost count now of the number of times I’d had to stop and thought I’d not be able to go on. But on I’d gone as there was nowhere to stop for the night now: I was in a rural part of the moor.
When I finally limped into Widecombe In The Moor I cursed the fresh-faced tourists who’d simply stepped off a tour bus to wander around the village, which was completely closed, being a Sunday and all. I wondered what the hell they were doing there. But then I saw the hill I needed to climb to reach the Top Tor car park where the car would, hopefully, still be waiting for me. My heart sank. It was another 160 metres up a 20% incline on a main road with no verges.
With no alternative available I set off up the final obstacle Dartmoor had put between me and my car. I can tell you now that hill went on forever. Every step was excruciatingly painful in both knees and both feet. I’d hit rock bottom and had enough. Dartmoor was clearly trying to kill me, but I wasn’t going to let it. Eventually, with sweat pouring off me, I saw the car park and my heart leapt. I’d finally made it! Except, where was the car?
Where was the effing car?! And come to think about it, wasn’t there a sign at the entrance to the car park when I arrived? And there was definitely a path leading off to Top Tor on the other side of the road. And, wait, the car park was definitely on the crest of the hill. I looked up the hill and realised this wasn’t the same car park. There was still plenty more hill to cover. The realisation was crushing, but I had no choice but to carry on. Up and up and up thinking about nothing but the agony in my legs and feet.
When I finally reached the car, which thankfully hadn’t been stolen, set on fire, or otherwise incapacitated, I nearly cried. It had been a very long, hard day. I praised myself for having had the foresight to leave some dry socks and shoes in the car, so I climbed into the back seat of the car and started peeling wet layers of clothes off me as the wind battered the car. And then I checked the time: It was exactly 6pm. I’ve still no idea how I’d made it back on time, but I had. Quite broken, but back safe.