The Agony of The Feet

This post was written as part of my career counselling to help identify patterns from moments I worked toward a goal (from 'What Colour is Your Parachute?'). I thought it made a good account of my solo thru hike of the Hadrian's Wall Path in October 2019 so I'm posting it here.

“Hi everyone. Today I finished the first part of my goal, which was hiking the Hadrian’s Wall Path, about 95 miles. That means that tomorrow, when I finish the rest of my goal, I will have hiked over 100 miles, which is the most I’ve ever walked in one go. It’s extra impressive because it’s my first backpacking trip by myself and I’ve been in pain since day 2, and when I say ‘in pain’, I mean that every step has hurt.”

Watching a video I recorded of myself on my phone, sitting in a budget hotel room in Newcastle, I can hear the frailty in my own voice and can see the film of tears beginning to form over my eyes. “I’ve completely trashed my feet this week, I’ve been in tears thinking, ‘I never want to hike again’, which is really hard to admit... I was so discouraged that I was thinking, ‘Do I even want to finish the hike?’” 

I remember that moment, recording that video, with a vividness borne of physical pain and raw emotions. My throbbing, swollen feet were propped up on a stack of pillows and my wet socks and boots were drying by the radiator. I had been hiking for 6 days across northern England in cloudy, cold, wet October weather, and I was reaching out to the people following my hike to encourage them to donate money to Wintercomfort, a Cambridge-based charity serving homeless and insecurely housed people. My goal was to walk coast-to-coast by myself to raise £300 for the charity, and I only had one more day of walking left, but I didn’t know if I could do it.

Day 1 had started out easy enough. I had caught the train to Carlisle the previous evening and the first day took me from the coast back to Carlisle, so I took advantage, booked two nights at a cheap hotel and left my backpack there for the day. I made the miles quickly and sheltered from a rainstorm for the afternoon. Day 2 was a longer day, however, and now I had my tent, sleeping set up, stove, food, water, extra clothes and so on to carry on my back. I knew it would be wet, so I’d chosen to wear a pair of water-proof winter hiking boots that I hadn’t broken in yet and were in my normal shoe size. By the afternoon of this second day, I was seriously worried about getting to my campsite before dark, and my feet were beginning to swell into the limited space in my boots. I sat down and cried in a wet field full of sheep, wishing I could quit for the day - stop walking and pitch my tent among the sheep - but having no choice but to press on until I reached somewhere to stay for the night.

That evening, after resting my feet for a bit, I could barely hobble for the swelling. “Okay,” I thought, “I’ll lace my boots a bit looser and maybe that will help.”

Over the next four days, I made my way over the wet, muddy landscape, following the bones of the ancient defences that marked the very edge of the Roman Empire before its fall. I camped in grassy fields beaded with rain and awoke before sunrise every morning to pack up my wet belongings and head further East, breath emerging in clouds, posting photos and videos along the way and reminding people to donate if they could. Words of encouragement came in through my fundraising page, but they felt faint and far away as I sank shin-deep into mud. I berated myself for not walking faster, for not being stronger, for being in pain.

“I actually spoke aloud something I realised yesterday,” I told my phone while walking through a cloudy day on the scenic, rolling Whin Sill section, recounting an impactful conversation with another hiker the previous evening. “I drive myself super hard and I always thought it was coming from other people, but it really is coming from me. And I have the power to change that.”

Over the daily miles I would experience ups and downs, unrelated to the undulations underfoot, that felt raw and pure and uncomplicated. In the morning I would get up full of optimism, and by the afternoon the pain in my feet would have increased and cast a pall on my mood. I learned this pattern, and learned that it would pass, comforted myself with music or podcasts when I got low, and drove myself forward with my intention to reach the other side of the country, my pain made meaningful by the donations coming in.

That brings us to the hotel in Newcastle, where my feet and legs were in so much pain that I was considering giving up and going straight home the following day. Would it really be so bad to quit? I rationalised as I nursed my aching extremities. I’ve accomplished one goal by hiking the whole of Hadrian’s Wall. How much do the last 6 miles really matter to anyone besides me? Will I be causing a long-term injury by proceeding? Will I even be able to walk tomorrow?

I had been cast into this dismal mood at Wallsend by an anti-climax at the end of the trail, coupled with the fact that once my bag was set down and my shoes were off, I could barely hobble down the hall to dinner in the hotel restaurant as the swelling in my feet made it feel like walking on bags of water and pain shot up my legs. I took a photo of my feet propped up on their tower of pillows and they were visibly puffy, having grown at least one shoe size within my too-tight boots. As every day on the trail had increased the pain in my feet and legs, I had doubts as to whether or not I’d be able to tough it out in the morning. 

In the video, I'm honest about this. “When I finally dragged myself back to Newcastle, where I’m staying tonight, I was thinking, ‘Do I even want to finish the coast-to-coast? Do I even want to do I even want to do those last 6 miles tomorrow if it’s going to be such a let down?’ And of course I do. Of course. I set out to walk coast-to-coast, and I’ve been wanting to do that for a really long time. Whatever my feet feel like tomorrow, I’m going to get up and I’m going to walk the rest of the way.”

There’s a stubbornness in my voice that I had often characterised as martyrdom before, but now I was starting to recognise what it really was: Grit. I had learned to take better care of myself, to rest when I needed, to not berate myself so much, to make adjustments to achieve my goals, but that didn’t mean letting myself off the hook. I had to try.

First thing in the morning, I got dressed and packed my bag, and walked gingerly down to the restaurant for breakfast. The last day of walking was unremarkable; hugging busy roads, snaking through residential streets and alongside shipping yards. It was hardly glamorous hiking. My feet throbbed and my Achilles tendon rubbed painfully against the back of my boot. My knees ached and I listened to music all morning to keep my mind off of the pain and the lacklustre scenery.

Then I saw the North Sea.

It was another hour of walking through port towns, taking a ferry across the river to South Shields, finding yet another Roman fort attraction closed for the season, and then finally I crested a hill, eased myself down a long flight of concrete steps, and slowly approached the sea. I filmed my feet walking across the sand. It was a long walk, as the tide was out, and then filmed my hand throwing a piece of ceramic I’d carried from the other coast into the water, then turned the camera toward my face.

This time, I was crying tears of pride and gratitude. I put my hand to my cracked lips and looked out to sea, nodding to myself, a smile fighting with the tears. I wanted to say, “Well, I did it! I’m here!” or sum up the trip in some pithy, memorable way, but as I looked at the camera, all I could do was wipe my running nose on my sleeve and give a thumbs up. I did it.

Over the course of seven days, I walked the breadth of England and raised over £450 for Wintercomfort. I coached myself through some mental and physical hardships, and felt free and far away, totally comfortable in the silence of my own company. I knew deep down that if I set a goal for myself, I would do everything in my power to achieve it.

Move into May with National Walking Month

This article first appeared in the Cambridge University Environment and Energy newsletter.

May 2020 is National Walking Month and, given that it’s currently one of the government-sanctioned forms of daily exercise in the UK, walking may already be a regular and cherished part of your day. If you're yet to get into walking however, or are just starting out, I’m here to share some ideas about taking those first steps, finding walks local to you and creating adventure close to home.

You don’t need an Instagram-worthy mountain view to enjoy walking. In fact, it’s one of the most accessible ways of moving your body whilst gaining the wellbeing benefits of being outside and clearing your mind. In her book Wanderlust, Rebecca Solnit says, “Walking allows us to be in our bodies and in the world without being made busy by them. It leaves us free to think without being wholly lost in our thoughts.” Especially now, when many of our normal forms of exercise and ways of being in the world have changed, walking is something that could help us reconnect to ourselves and our surroundings in difficult times.

Most of us know how good walking can be for mental and physical health. But if you’ve been meaning to start and haven’t yet been able to work it into your lockdown routine, consider only listening to a favourite audiobook or podcast when you’re out for a walk, extending your trip to the shops by taking a detour to the local park, or setting yourself a scavenger hunt. Logging walks through the Cambridge staff running group on Strava or another virtual club can be a great way of staying motivated by being part of a community of like-minded people. Online resources like Walks with Wheelchairs and The Outdoor Guide provide information about wheelchair and pushchair accessible trails so that those with impaired mobility can also enjoy the benefits of getting outside. Please bear in mind that some managers of popular trails like the National Trust are either recommending against or outright banning use of their trails at the time of writing, so check before you go.



If you’re already a keen walker like I am, you might be feeling frustrated at cancelled spring hiking plans, but now is a good time to reconnect with what you really love about hiking in the first place, like the meditative feel of walking and observing nature. Those things are just as available to you on a walk around your local park as they are on a remote trail. When you’re stuck indoors you could use the time to start planning your next dream walk by looking over guidebooks and maps, or researching gear and testing it out at home. If you prefer digital ways of planning, I’ve used both ViewRanger and All Trails to plan walks, both of which have crowd-sourced reviews and accessibility information about the trails. You can save a list of your favourites for future adventures. Apps like these are also a great way of finding new places to walk near you.

If you can’t wait until the lockdown ends, the Ordnance Survey Get Outside champions have some great ideas for scratching your adventure itch without roaming too far from home. How about taking part in a step challenge with your family, colleagues or your whole Department? The British Heart Foundation have shared a resource giving the equivalent footsteps it takes to virtually climb landmarks, like Snowdon, Big Ben and even Mount Everest, using your own stairs!

Whenever you do go out and walk, please stay safe and ensure that you are following the government’s latest guidelines. The Ramblers also have some great guidance on walking responsibly in the current situation, including avoiding touching gates and railings with your hands where possible and timing your walk to avoid crowds. Wherever your feet or wheels take you, take a deep breath, enjoy the time you get outdoors and remember to look after your local communities and ecosystems!

Further resources:

Ordnance Survey Greenspace: OS have mapped green spaces across the UK and it’s a great way of identifying new places near you that might make a pleasant walk.
Living Streets: This group campaigns for greater access to pedestrian friendly urban spaces based on the wellbeing benefits of walking. They also have great ideas for urban walks.
Just Walk: As the founders of National Walking Month, British Heart Foundation have resources to help you set walking challenges and raise money at the same time, a great way to get excited about walking.
Ramblers: The UK’s largest walking organisation, the Ramblers, have plenty of resources to help you plan walks, as well as advocating for the protection of pedestrian access in the countryside.

Information skills for hikers: planning a walk

Today I wanted to do something a little different and feature a video from a creator I follow that's relevant to this channel. It features one of the many aspects I talked about in my long post on why hikers need information skills. I'm thinking of breaking that post down and going into more detail on each topic. Let me know what you think about this idea and what you'd like me to tackle first in the comments.

Some of you might find this a little basic, but it's a really good, detailed primer if you're just getting started with route planning.

Abbie's UK thru-hike videos are really lovely to watch before a long hike. She gives you a bit of history, a bit of botany, a bit of geology and plenty of enthusiasm for the landscapes of the UK. If you're thinking of trying a section hike or a thru-hike on one of the national trails in Britain, check out her videos to get a really good taster and plenty of information about points of interest. Also, cheers for the shout out to libraries, Abbie!

For those who prefer a high tech version of planning, my partner and I have used an app called ViewRanger for years to plan and track our hikes. We've bought the Ordnance Survey map set for the entire UK and much of the West Coast of America, which we've found pretty cost effective as opposed to paying for the tiles one by one, given how often we hike and in how many different areas. You can start out with reviewed routes uploaded by other users or organisations, and when you're confident enough you can map out your own before you go.

Trip Report: South West Coast Path - Section 1 - 16-20 July, 2017

Shortly after deciding I wanted to thru-hike the PCT, I realised I would need to up my backpacking skills, so I planned a trip for my partner and I along the beautiful 600 mile South West Coast Path in England. This was my first multi-night backpacking trip and my partner's first backpacking trip full stop. We had only slept in our tent once before setting out for 5 days of walking and camping along the Somerset and North Devon coast.

Distance: 118 km
Ascent: 7,535 m
Max elevation: 316 m

Day 1 - Minehead to Porlock (20 km)

After walking along the sandy beach at Minehead the night before we started, we stayed in a B&B overnight and had a nice cooked breakfast before setting off early, stopping for photos at the sculpture that marks the beginning of the path.

At the monument in Minehead, about to set off on my first backpacking trip as an adult, with lots to learn and lots to see.

Coming out of Minehead, the trail climbs almost immediately up a steep, wooded bank as a sign of things to come. The weight of our bags was a little bit alarming at first and it took me a little while to figure out how to use my trekking poles to help with the hills, but eventually got the hang of it, and especially appreciated having them on descents.

Exploring medieval ruins that have nearly been swallowed up by the forest.

A detour brought us to the ruins of a small medieval chapel that was now engulfed in a sea of nettles. I wandered around it, snapping a few photos, and working on strengthening my immunity to nettle stings. We had another steep climb through the trees to rejoin the main trail and I was already wondering what I'd let myself in for. My massive bag made every uphill step feel like a weighted squat and I was shattered by the top. Shortly after, there was another detour labelled "Rugged coastal path" that seemed to descend rapidly before climbing back up the hill we'd just done. I had been planning to take it, but the first climb made me vacillate. In retrospect I wish we had taken that path, simply because I have a better understanding now of my own endurance levels and I know we could have done it, but this was the first day of my first backpacking trip and I lacked the confidence that I could deal with the extra climb.

A doggo at the crossroads. We took the high road to avoid an extra decent to sea level and back up again.

Instead, we took the inland path, looking out over the rolling, green hills of Exmoor, but it quickly clouded over. The view cleared slightly on top of a beacon hill with a trig point on top, but it remained misty for the rest of the inland route. We wandered around the earthworks of an iron age hill fort, then encountered a slightly lost backpacker who was sitting on the path looking slightly defeated. She was petite and was wearing a large men's backpack that fit her very badly, clearly struggling under the weight of it. She told us that she was intending to do as much of the trail as she could over 6 weeks as she tried to keep her shoulder straps from sliding off. We pointed out where the trail went, descending into the fog, then carried on.

We didn't know it yet, but this is typical of the South West Coast Path - steep sided valleys with a beach or a bay where we could camp and/or get some food before heading up another big climb.

A long, steep descent had me singing the praises of my trekking poles for saving my knees, and finally we saw the sea again, walked out to a ruined coast guard hut, had our photo taken, and walked along the shingle beach for a bit. We found a small tea room in a thatched roof cottage and had a lunch of scones with jam and cream, despite not being in Devon yet. After we finished our very healthy lunch, we headed out across a boardwalk that kept us from slogging through a marsh, and then to our first campsite in Porlock. We had a view of the sea, and of the south coast of Wales, and we pitched our tent next to the overwhelmed backpacker. She had found an outdoor outfitter and was going to take a rest day to get fitted for a new bag - I must admit I was relieved to hear it! Our dinner was a mug each of soup from a packet and a sandwich purchased from the local shop, and we turned in for the night.

Our home for the night.

Day 2 - Porlock to Lynton (30 km)

First thing in the morning I did some yoga to stretch out my calves, we made some tea using the kettle at the campsite rather than our stove and drank smoothies we'd bought at the convenience store for breakfast. We hit the trail, passing a very cool little post-war chapel made of corrugated tin sheeting, a partially submerged petrified forest and some strange arches and walls that wound through the woods and looked like something from The Prisoner or a Miyazaki film.

St. Nicholas Church, made of reclaimed tin sheeting, and with this gorgeous little sign.

Most of the morning was spent in the woods, and as the sun streamed through the thick green canopy and the air was warm and quiet, I felt like Rip Van Winkle, or someone who was about to be abducted by faeries from some sleepy little glen. A sign pointing off the trail toward Ash Farm seemed to compound this feeling, as did the tiny hamlet of Culbone, nestled over a waterfall in a lush little valley.

I'm seldom happier than when I'm walking in the woods.

We stopped at Culbone Church, a medieval church mentioned in the Doomsday Book and the smallest parish church in England. We sat in the sunny church yard where the robins were practically tame and the sound of burbling water under the oak and walnut trees cast a sleepy spell over the place. After resting our legs and eating a bit of food (probably what the robins were really interested in), we decided it was best to move on from Culbone, lest we stay forever.

We were constantly on a roller coaster, up and down hills, and the forest soon opened up into more pines with less undergrowth. We passed a couple of veterans who were raising money for veterans with PTSD by walking the path. Once we got out of earshot I started singing "In the Pines" - the Nirvana version, of course - because it seemed fitting. The scenery changed again as we entered a forest of invasive rhododendrons that densely covered the steep-sided hill and blocked our view of the sea to our right, but once they dropped away we were left with a jaw-dropping view from our steep path that occasionally turned to scree. To be fair to the South West Coast Path, we were on another detour out to a lighthouse when it got truly steep, so the real path doesn't try quite so hard to murder you.

Crossing a scree field above a steep plummet to the sea with a heavy bag on your back? No big deal.

By this point we had a "f*ck it" attitude and were taking any detours we came across. We did an extra climb up Butter Hill, the highest point in the area, with a great view over the fields and pastures below, as the woodland had dropped away. After coming down Butter Hill, we stopped at a pub to rest our legs and to have an early dinner, sitting outside on the picnic benches next to a narrow but busy country road. It had already been a big day and we had another 7 km to do before we got to our campsite. I wanted a fizzy drink but not soda, and my partner suggested lime and soda, which I'd never had before. It went down amazingly well. For those not in the know, most pubs in the UK have lime and soda as an option for designated drivers. It's just lime cordial with soda water, and it has become my official post- or during-hike drink. It's just sugary enough to be really nice after exertion without being quite as sickly as a normal flavoured soda and it's a nice break from plain water.

No matter how many more miles you have to do, it's always a good idea to soak your feet in cool water on a hot day!

When we set off again, we quickly headed back into a wood of mostly oak and soaked our feet in a valley at Watersmeet, where two streams merged into one and were crossed by an old stone bridge. I was pretty tired by this point and was eager to get to our campsite. But we still had some climbing to do, and this was up a hill that seemed to be a massive colony of flying ants. The bugs were thick, the air was humid, and the views were scarce. Where we did catch glimpses of the dramatic hillside on which Lynton stood, it was too buggy to stop and enjoy them. I was practically racing down the hill on the other side as the sun was getting low on the horizon and I was out of water. We got down to our campsite after 8, pitched our tent in the deepening darkness, and showered before bed. We gave each other leg massages and slept the sleep of those who have walked 50 km in two days.

Not my favourite section of trail - buggy, hot, humid and at the end of a very long day. The view here looks better than I remember, thanks to my crabby mood!

Day 3 - Lynton to Watermouth Valley (28 km)

We awoke to find our devices had no power and the campsite didn't have anywhere to charge them for free. We had a fry up at the cafe while we kept jumping up to feed the chargers with change and tried to get some juice via the solar panel my partner was carrying. It was a very late start by the time we set off. Despite the mileage the previous day I felt pretty good and by this point we were pretty quick at breaking camp. But we were put to shame by a fellow hiker who we had been camping near for the past two nights. He had a one-person tent that was so small and cramped looking that we called him "Sarcophagus Pete", and he was normally up and hiking before we'd finished our tea in the morning.

Lynton, built on a hillside so steep that they have a funicular railway.

Goats!

The Valley of the Rocks

We had camped a little bit outside of Lynton and couldn't afford to stop and look around the town as we walked through, but it looked adorable. The hike out of town was one of my favourite stretches - first through a herd of goats nibbling grass on the cliff sides, then into the Valley of the Rocks, a pretty spectacular field of boulders and crags that would have looked at home in Middle Earth. The path started as a thin ribbon on the edge of the wild, open sea cliffs, then wound inland, past day hikers and dog walkers.

This section of the South West Coast Path is constantly varied between rocky coves, wooded valleys and hilltop views.

We passed a huge abbey and its sprawling grounds, then into more woodland. All of this was in glorious, bright sun, and we were beginning to get great views of the headlands that both lay ahead of and behind us. It's a wonderful path for being able to mark your progress visually, and as we ticked off more headlands we had some significant drops and climbs, one right after the other, pausing for a foot bath in a stream, and for some tuna wraps by the side of the trail. The day started pretty warm and not for the first or the last time we regretted not having time to be able to find our way down to the turquoise water below for a proper swim. 

Headland after headland on the North Devon coast.

I saw, and nearly stepped on, two adders, but sadly didn't get any photos of them before they slithered off. As we traversed the steep, wooded hillsides of a National Trust area, I saw two red deer charging off into the trees and was so transfixed that I stepped off the trail and fell hard on my hands and knees, luckily, rather than falling down the hill. Getting to my feet with around 25 lbs on my back was pretty hard! 

Grateful for outdoor pub seating, lime and soda, and a view.

We hit a high point just as rain started to fall, and headed into Coombe Martin with our pack covers on. The path was narrow and wound between thick bushes, and a herd of sheep we'd encountered at the top of the hill ended up running away from us down the trail, basically all the way into Coombe Martin. We decided to stop at a pub right on the beach for a greasy dinner and a drink, once again opting to eat early and then do a few more kilometres to our campsite rather than having to carry our dinners with us. It's a definite benefit of hiking in the UK, as more often than not you can have a good hot meal from a pub or cafe every day if you want. We also chatted to some of the patrons about what we were doing and their impressed comments made us feel proud and happy of what we'd accomplished so far.

Enjoying sunset over the sea.

As we were making our way to the campsite I'd booked, the sun was getting low and beautiful sunset colours were transforming the sea and sky, and we spotted below us a campsite overlooking the water. We turned aside and opted to stay there instead, pitching our tent as the sun started to go down. The sky faded from tropical oranges and pinks to a deep navy blue, and over the horizon behind us a single cloud began to mount up, a sign of things to come. That night a storm of wind and lightning woke me up and had me feeling a little bit nervous, especially when I could feel the wind lifting the floor of our tent, but our tent did fine.

A clear night, with one very ominous cloud on the horizon.

Day 4 - Watermouth Valley to Woolacombe (24 km)

In the morning we woke up and made some baked beans on the stove, and as we sat there cooking, Sarcophagus Pete strolled past on what we had taken as merely the main access road for the campsite, but turned out to be the actual South West Coast Path. We had camped about 2 metres from it, rather than 2 km away at the campsite I had originally booked.

The rain overnight had soaked the socks and things we'd hung out to dry, so we stayed long enough to dry them a bit more, and set off into what was an overcast and slightly blustery morning. The first part of the day was pretty unassuming, winding alongside busy roads, ducking between back fences of terraced houses, and staying relatively flat through thick bracken overlooked by expensive houses. We ran into Sarcophagus Pete waiting for a bus on the outskirts of Ilfracombe - he'd left his trekking poles in a cafe and walked across town before realising. The bus skirted a huge hill that overlooked Ilfracombe harbour, but the trail went zig-zagging up it instead. It was heavily wooded, so there were only a few viewpoints, but we got a nice view of the strikingly incongruous Damien Hirst statue, Verity, striding above the harbour. 

Verity, Ilfracombe

Back down into town on the harbour I posed for a photo with Verity and we wandered around a bit looking for somewhere to have lunch, hiker hunger having hit us fully by this point. After some searching, my partner identified a little tea room where we sat outside next to an artificial waterfall and ate our body weight in food. I had an omelette and a mandarin orange sponge cake the size of an airplane wheel chock (that I still day dream about), and my partner had an afternoon tea for two on a tiered porcelain cake tower. It was definitely too fancy for us. We bought and wrote postcards and while I was waiting for my partner to find stamps to send them, I witnessed a dog lash out and bit a man's hand as he walked passed. They were right next to me and I'd been looking right at them - the man hadn't even looked at the dog. I was able to help with my meagre first aid supplies as the dog's owner kept insisting, "She's really gentle! My daughter is disabled!" The man's hand was bleeding badly from a deep gouge wound and his friend was urging him to go to hospital. I felt bad for everyone involved.

"This is my life now." Nothing but ups and downs.

After all of that, we left Ilfracombe after 2 with most of the day's hike still to do. Despite overcast skies it was still hot and humid, and I ran low on water again. First, there was a big climb up a winding hill, with benches every few metres, it seemed. We had already invented the "South West Coast Path Bench Density Scale" as a measure of how close to a town we were, and this section was off the chart. Quickly, though, we were on remote moorland, with the clouds spitting down on us and a deafening wind in our ears. We leapfrogged with a fit-looking couple clad in bright GoreTex (I named them "The Fogles", after adventurous TV presenter Ben Fogle), but otherwise we were alone on steep and desolate moors. I sang to keep my spirits up, and my partner noticed that I tended to do this more when I got dehydrated. We also spotted a VERY lost looking car driving off-road to the top of one of the hills out in the middle of nowhere and turning around, presumably another victim of blind faith in Sat Nav.

After enough time on trail, things get a little bit weird.

The first civilisation we reached was a group of houses on a steep hill. One guy (who looked like Faramir from Lord of the Rings) was out working in his garden and we stopped and chatted for a bit, then descended into Lee Mouth, an adorable little village on a cove, where people were sitting out enjoying drinks looking over the sea despite the grey weather. We dropped down to a number of beautiful coves, only to climb back up again until up and down stopped feeling significant. The guide book described this trail as a roller coaster, but I'm pretty sure even roller coasters have more flat sections. This was the first time I had to ask my partner if we could sit down because I wasn't sure if my legs would keep going. We found a bench, a sure sign that we weren't too far from civilisation, and took a little rest as the wind and rain picked up. Then we rounded the wild and alien-looking Morte Point and headed along the wall of a wide bay with a long, sandy beach: Woolacombe.

Lee Mouth, Devon. Very cute.

When we reached the paved streets of the town, we were doing a zombie-like walk that to most hikers is known as the "hiker hobble", but that will forever be known to us as "the Woolacombe Shuffle". We grunted at each other to confirm that we would go to the first restaurant we encountered, a burger joint with an outdoor deck so that we wouldn't offend other patrons with our smell and our big bags, and ate a big dinner.

Unbeknown to me, the "campsite" I'd booked was a hellscape made real, AKA a holiday park. I did not know that such a thing existed so I didn't know to avoid it, but we made the best of being one of two tents in a sea of RVs and static caravans. At least the showers were clean and I washed and blow-dried some of my clothes, did some yoga and had a decent night's sleep.

Day 5 - Woolacombe to Croyde (16 km)

In the morning we finally posted our postcards, and had a nice (gigantic) breakfast at a surfer-friendly cafe in town because we knew we had a shorter day. We walked along the long, sandy beach, where hang gliders and surfers abounded. We only had one headland to go over, so we took our time, and watched rock climbers scaling the sheer cliffs below Baggy Point in the wild wind.

The last headland, Baggy Point.

 Lunch was a slice of cake as soon as we got into the outskirts of Croyde, then we hiked over the sand dunes to try and find our B&B, which is not the easiest with a giant rucksack.

I had cut the itinerary short because the walk into Barnstaple sounded pretty boring and I thought keeping the mileage down for our first backpacking trip was a good idea. That way we got a day in Croyde, a surfer town, and we'd be able to swim and surf to recover from our walk. That was the theory, anyway. In practice, we had good weather walking into town, and sat on the beach in the afternoon, but the full day we had in Croyde was tipping it down and the weather turned cold. Instead of surfing, we did a short 5 1/2 km walk around the hills above Croyde and got thoroughly soaked. But we enjoyed our stay. Surf towns tend to have very good shops and restaurants, so we took plenty of advantage of those, as well as lounging around our room at our B&B drinking tea and looking out at the weather.

Lessons Learned

It's funny, I wrote some lessons learned in my hiking journal at the time, and looking back at them I've changed my mind on most of them. But we did learn a lot from this trip. 

First and foremost, it was just gaining the confidence that we could backpack, and that it was enjoyable for us. The quality time you spend with someone on a hike like this is irreplaceable. We walked in silence a lot, but we also talked a lot, made jokes, shared experiences and supported each other. 

Second, I learned the value of editing gear down as much as possible. I had written that a camera wouldn't have been worth the weight because phone cameras are good enough, but I'm rethinking that these days. Also, one water bottle is not enough for a day of backpacking.

Given how much we regretted not being able to stop and swim, and how many times we changed campsites on the fly, I felt after this hike that it would be nicer to have a less rigid schedule, and we're working toward that. Backpacking can be handled like a military operation or like a vacation from obligations, where your only responsibility is to keep yourself nourished and hydrated enough to keep moving forward, and I prefer the latter.

I really fell in love with the South West Coast Path over this week, and the next section that we did two years later sealed the deal. It's a remarkable path for the UK, taking you through so much diversity of landscape and terrain without being a boggy nightmare like parts of the Pennine Way and Hadrian's Wall Path are. While there are services that carry your bag from place to place, it's so rewarding to do it yourself on this path. It's hard, yes, but few things can beat the freedom of having everything you need on your back and being able to make your own schedule. I'm looking forward to hiking the rest of the path over the next several years and to some day making it to the other end at Poole. From there, I'll be able to look back at this first trip and know that it was the beginning of a deep love of backpacking that has shaped my adult life for the better.

Why hikers need information skills

In the back country, knowledge isn't just power, it might be the thing that gets you home safely.

Every so often there's a news story that go something like this:

A group of hikers takes what they think is an 'easy' route in the mountains but have completely misread or underestimated the weather conditions, have ignored advice about gear to carry and are wearing completely the wrong clothing, have overestimated their ability to get back to civilisation and to find their way in challenging conditions... you get the idea. Sometimes the story ends well: they found mobile signal and managed to contact someone, the weather was good enough or access was easy enough that they were rescued before hypothermia claimed them. Often, though, they don't get that lucky.

During the recent storms that hit the UK a similar story emerged of four hikers needing to be airlifted off of Ben Nevis, and their level of unpreparedness was, I'll admit, very aggravating to me. Not only is it irresponsible to their own safety and their families and friends, it endangers the lives of mountain rescue workers every time they get called out, particularly in bad weather conditions. I don't want to dwell on this specific story, though. Instead I want to talk about how information skills help with preparation for hiking and other outdoor adventures, and could make the difference between a successful trip and a search and rescue mission.

For me, day hiking, backpacking and thru hiking are amazing and fun. I love the feeling of freedom walking out of civilisation, carrying only what I need my back, and I'm not the only one. Instagram is full of photos of people in cute outfits doing yoga on mountain tops at sunset and other such images. It makes the outdoors seem glamorous and aspirational so that more and more people are getting inspired to go out into the back country. But looking at a geotagged Instagram post doesn't count as research, and too many people are either hurting themselves or the natural environments they're visiting through simple lack of knowledge. The following is a short primer to what you should know before you go out hiking. It doesn't have to feel like a chore. I actually love hiking prep: it's a chance to get excited about where you're going and, most importantly, it's a way to make sure you can get back to civilisation on your own and not in a Mountain Rescue helicopter.

Where and when to go

The route that the four hikers took on Ben Nevis is known as "the tourist route". Sounds easy, right? This might explain why three of the four were wearing normal trainers rather than trail shoes or boots when they were found on an icy slope. Underestimating a hiking route is one of the quickest ways to get yourself into danger. When choosing a route, don't just pick the one that has the epic selfie spot at the end. Have a look at the length, the terrain, the elevation profile, whether there are water sources, or indeed potentially dangerous water crossings, to see how long it might take you. You should have an idea of how far you can walk in an hour on a flat surface, then factor in the difficulty of the terrain to estimate how long you'll need in order to do it. For that reason you should also figure out what time it's going to get dark so you can either plan to be back before sunset or prepare accordingly with a head torch.

Crucially, it's important to know the weather, and not just the weather of the town you're leaving from, but what the weather is going to be like at elevation. Mountain weather is a lot different than the weather closer to sea level. While Storm Ciara was blowing my plant pots around my garden and pelting rain against my windows, there were blizzard conditions on Ben Nevis, which means low visibility, water on the trail turning to ice and hypothermia causing delirium and bad decision-making. Mountain weather can change quickly, too. Even if the forecast is for fine weather, you need to be prepared in case it's not. If the weather looks bad, don't go. The trail will still be there.

Know before you go:

• Elevation profile. Check an elevation profile and/or a topographic map to look for big climbs, scrambling, steep ridge walks and any other features you might not be confident dealing with.
• Reviews of the trail, the more recent the better. Reviews can tell you a bit about the conditions, if any bridges are out, if there are blow-downs, or if the epic view has now been spoiled by a luxury condo going up.
• Weather conditions, including a local mountain weather report if applicable. Plan your clothing, water and sun protection accordingly. Remember, you can still get a sunburn if it's cold, and even if it's overcast!
• Sunrise/sunset time. If you're trying to get a sunset selfie, you'll need to bring a head torch or flashlight of some variety, and if daylight only lasts 7 hours at the moment and you're doing a hike that will take 9, the same advice applies.
• Rules about permits, camping, wildlife precautions (e.g. bear cans / bear boxes) and campfires. Check the website for the park or trail you're planning to hike before you go.
• How long it's likely to take you given the terrain and conditions, including breaks.

What to carry and wear

While I definitely believe that hiking shouldn't be prohibitively expensive, and a lot of specialist gear is bought by people who really don't need the high performance wind and sun proof mountaineering trousers to stroll around Keswick, having decent gear, layers and footwear are all very important to staying safe when hiking. A bit of research will tell you what you need, and you can probably find a lot of it already in your closet.

The importance of preparing for not being able to walk hit me one December when my partner and I went hill walking in the Lake District up a snowy, -12 degree C peak. We were wrapped up just about warm enough, with the chill wind cutting through our thin gloves and biting our ankles between our shoes and water proofs, and then we sat down inside a low wind screen - really just a pile of stones that helps block the wind - to eat our sandwiches. Within about 60 seconds of sitting down I could feel my body temperature start to plummet - not just my extremities, but my whole body started to cool down rapidly. I turned to my partner. "I'm going to hurry up and eat this. I can't sit still for too long." On the way back down the mountain we mused that it's why people bring emergency blankets and bivvy shelters on day hikes. If one of us had twisted an ankle or sprained a knee and had been unable to walk, we'd have had to wait for rescue in those temperatures without any way of keeping warm, possibly long enough for hypothermia to kick in. Don't get me wrong, I don't usually bring one on day hikes because I'm not often in extreme conditions, but I normally have at least one extra layer than what I think I'll need, and always something water proof. The specifics of what goes in your bag depends very much on your experience, where you're going, what the weather's like and how long you'll be there. That's why planning ahead and doing your research is so important.

Know before you go:

• Cotton kills. This dramatic statement reflects the fact that fabrics and clothing that work well in a city can be dangerous in the outdoors. Cotton retains moisture for a long time, so if it gets wet you can risk hypothermia. And just because your trainers have good grip on the tennis court or your local park paths doesn't mean they're the right thing to wear up a mountain.
• What you need and how to use it. Consider the conditions, how long you're staying out and how much food and water you'll need. If you're bringing a first aid kit, compass or ice axe, know how to use them or you may as well not have them.
• The 10 essentials. Yes, even for a day hike.
• How much you can carry for the distance you need to carry it. Let's face it - you can probably leave the hatchet and the speaker system at home and have a better time without the extra weight. The flip side of my first two points is that you might actually need less than you think, or at least there are lighter substitutes than the items you found next to the checkout at your local outdoor outfitter.
• Technology is great, but have a backup plan. Apps like View Ranger, OS Locate and Guthook can help with navigation and give you peace of mind, but be prepared for the time when you drop your phone or it runs out of battery.
• What you'd need to stay warm if you can't get yourself out.

What to do and not do in nature

When you visit the back country, don't think about yourself as a conqueror who's there to "crush" miles or "bag" peaks. You are vulnerable AND the landscapes you're walking through may be vulnerable as well. I was taught as a kid to "take only photos and leave only footprints". I was also taught the Leave No Trace principles (linked below). There was the sense of wanting to leave nature just as you found it that I dearly miss every time I see a banner of toilet paper strewn over the heather or an empty plastic drink bottle on top of a peak in the UK.

Know before you go:

• The Leave No Trace principles and how they apply where you're going. I wish these were taught at school and posted everywhere in the UK. We are so bad at managing and protecting our natural environment here. A note to all female hikers: yes, toilet paper biodegrades, but not instantaneously, and meanwhile other people have to look at it.
• How to react to encounters with the wildlife. 
• How to spot the likely hazards where you'll be hiking. Do you know what an ice sheet and a cornice look like? Do you know how to read avalanche conditions? If not, then stay off the mountains in the snow. Do you know how to free yourself from quicksand? If not, then stay out of boggy areas that might harbour quicksand. River crossings? Scrambling? More often than animal attacks, it's the landscape itself that poses the greatest danger to unwary or inexperienced hikers.

What to share with others 

My dad drilled into me to never hike alone, and after my uncle was seriously injured on a solo hike and luckily was found and airlifted off the trail, I really internalised that. It's still good advice, but not always practical, and not always what you want. I've started enjoying solo hiking and plan on doing more of it. But there are some precautions and preparations you should make, and information you need to pass along to someone you trust.

• Your planned route. Tell at least one person where you're going and what route you plan on taking, even if it's just leaving a note on the dashboard of your car. If you go missing, people will have an idea of where to go looking for you.
• When to expect you back. Tell someone when you think you'll be back, especially for a multi-day or deep back country trip. Tell them that if they don't hear from you within a set window of time to call someone to report you missing.
• Consider not geotagging certain photos. As I talked about in the intro, geotagged photos on Instagram can bring floods of people out to the back country, whether it's the California super bloom or a not-so-secret alpine lake that used to be pristine. I'm all for more people accessing nature, but Instagram posts tend to commodify it and remove the layers of research I've just talked about that help keep people and nature safe.
• Consider using indigenous geotags instead. In the USA, Canada, New Zealand and other places around the globe, some of the lands white people like me hike on were taken from previous inhabitants. There is a growing practice of indigenous land acknowledgement when posting photographs or holding events, not just to say that "these people used to live here" but to really reflect on the ongoing impact of colonialism. There are resources for easily identifying whose land you are on, so it isn't a chore. In fact, it's a way of engaging with the history and management of the land that I find really rewarding.

Learning from your mistakes

I found this on a solo hike of the Hadrian's Wall Path. It reads: "POEM. I'm working on me. It's a project."

You won't always get it right - goodness knows I haven't. But make sure you reflect on what you learned from each trip. Hiking is something you can get better at, not just physically but mentally as well. The more experience you get, the more mistakes you've made, the better prepared you'll be.

I'll leave you with this: getting out into nature can be a wonderful and life-changing experience, but you have to be smart and know your limits. No trail or mountain is worth your life.

That's it for now. Stay curious and stay safe!

Origins of a Hiker - Part II: PCT origin story

This is Part II of my hiker origin story. Read Part I here.

11 September, 2016

Fresh off the back of finishing a Spartan Race, physically the hardest thing I'd ever done to that point in my life, I was feeling strong and ready for new challenges. The next week, we were in Seattle visiting my parents, and for old times sake I'd asked my dad to plan a day hike for us to do with him that would take in a good view of Mt. Rainier. He went through his library of hiking guidebooks and found just the thing: the Naches Peak Loop in Mt. Rainier National Park.

Dad delivered: stunning view of Mt. Rainier from the Naches Peak Loop. Dad's top tip is to go clockwise so you get a jaw-dropping reveal of the mountain when you turn a corner.

The three of us set off for this hike with lunch, snacks, water and sun screen, and enjoyed some beautiful weather and incredible views. I was snapping photos, and at one point I noticed that our trail had joined up with the Pacific Crest Trail. 

The Pacific Crest Trail, or PCT, is a 2,650 mile long distance hiking trail that winds through California, Oregon and Washington from Mexico to Canada. I'd known about it for most of my life, partly because a lot of Washington trails intersect with it, so I'd hiked on and around the PCT before. But mostly I knew of it because my dad's older brother had the aim of hiking the whole thing in sections over the course of his life. That had seemed like an enormous goal, but beyond that I didn't give it much thought. It was just something I'd always been aware of.

Dad and me posing on top of the Mt Rainier National Park entrance gate. Just over that rise I met my first thru hikers.

We had just stopped to pose for photos on a footbridge that spanned one of the roads into the park and then moved on when we came across a bit of trail traffic heading in the opposite direction. A young couple were at the front of a string of hikers, floating toward us despite the massive backpacks they were carrying. They looked like hippies: sun-toasted skin, oily hair, dirty clothes, and a serene glow.

"Hi there! How far are you going?" my dad asked. I wasn't surprised. He goes through life chatting to anyone and everyone, and while it sometimes embarrassed me when I was younger, I've come to admire it. When I'm on trail now I do the same.

"To Canada," they replied. It took me a moment to register. Wow, that's quite the section hike, I thought. That will take them weeks!

"Are you here because of The Book or The Film?" my dad asked knowingly. Later I was to find out that "The Book" and "The Film" referred to Wild, a non-fiction hiking memoir by Cheryl Strayed, which had popularised the Pacific Crest Trail. At the time, however, I had no idea what he was talking about.

The hippies muttered a slow reply - as if they were unused to speaking - that they had indeed read The Book, and my dad went on energetically. "Of course, she was really unprepared. Some of the things she did, it's so irresponsible..." The mostly one-sided conversation quickly faded and the quiet hippies drifted away. 

My dad: crushing miles and making friends.

"That makes sense," Dad mused as we hiked on. "This will be the time of year most of them are getting here,"

"Most of who?" I asked, still struggling to quite grasp what he and the hippies had been talking about.

"The thru hikers. You know, the people who have started at the Mexican border and are hiking the PCT all the way to Canada."

"They walked here from Mexico? All at once?!"

...is what I felt like saying. I tried to play it cooler than that, as if I had always known that you could walk the length of the United States in one go. But I was astounded. As we passed the rest of the queue of trail traffic, Dad stopped a few more grubby looking young people and chatted to them. 

They, too, had just walked. Here. From Mexico. They had chiseled, dirty legs and wide, easy smiles of the sort that seemed a universe away from all of my inner anxieties about how I ought to live my life.

For the rest of the day my mind was buzzing. They walked here. From Mexico. You can walk from Mexico to Canada in one go. One epic hike along the West Coast.

I wasn't fully aware of it yet but I had already decided that some day I would do it too. In Portland the next week, I bought a patch in Powell's Books that said "Pacific Crest Trail" and told myself in my quietest internal voice that one day I would earn that patch. 

This is the face of someone who has just decided to do something really hard and really exciting that will change their life.

I tested myself with thoughts like that for a few months as I started to read more about thru hiking and the PCT. I learned that the definition of a thru hike depends on the hiker, but that broadly it's a hike of every available mile of a long trail in a single hiking season or a single 12 month period. I learned that it can take 4 - 6 months to hike the PCT in its entirety, and your timeline is dictated by a weather window between when the snow melts in spring and when it falls again in Autumn on the highest elevations of the trail. And yes, I eventually read The Book and I watched The Film.

Finally, a few months after getting back to the UK, I started saying it out loud to other people in order to commit myself to it. I started saving money. I started a hiking log to keep track of the hikes we did and the lessons we learned on each. I planned overnight hikes for my partner and I to go on and finally got out the tent I'd bought years before. I started lists of gear, of skills to learn, of fears I had and how I would deal with them. I knew it would be years before I could do it because I would need to save money and somehow get the time off work, but I found myself planning and preparing with a focus that I'd never had before in my life. 

I decided that it couldn't wait until I retired to do it - I needed to get it done and not let "some day" become never. So I set myself the arbitrary goal of completing the trail before 2023, when I will turn 40, and told myself that no matter what it took - even if it meant quitting my job - I would attempt it. Well ahead of time I let my work know and got six months' unpaid leave for 2021, five years after I first decided to do it. Meanwhile, I continue to hike, to train, to save money and to prepare.

Over this time I've deciphered what that initial spark of inspiration was, and clarified what hiking the PCT means to me. It's a long love letter to the West Coast, the place I left but miss daily. It's a challenge that both frightens and excites me. It's outside the box - living in the woods as a dirtbag hiker for six months. It's a chance to find out what hiking means to me by doing nothing else. It's a place to practice grit and self-reliance. But most of all it was those hikers - grubby yet glowing - that inspired me. I want to know what resides behind those easy smiles and serene eyes.

That brings us to the present day, a little over a year before I will start my thru hike attempt. The plans are coming together and honestly, even if I have to leave the trail 100 miles in I will still be proud of myself. Committing to this goal, making a plan and carrying it out has made me a more determined, organised, self-confident person than I was before. I truly believe that the PCT has already made me a better person. I will endeavour to be worthy of the grand adventure that lays before me on a ribbon of dirt 24 inches wide and 2,650 miles long that will both test me and bring me home to myself. I want to meet the person that I will be at the other end.

I plan on posting my hike logs from the past as well as new hikes as they happen. I'll keep interspersing this with environmental and information management content, but I admit it's a lot easier for me to write about hiking than the other topics of this blog!