Alastair Humphreys » MicroAdventure

A Year of Microadventure in Review

Al Humphreys — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 09:17:57 +0000

In my talks I always try to emphasise the importance of adventure and endeavour in our placid, padded, 21st Century lives.

Adventure is a loose word, encapsulating a spirit of trying something new, trying something difficult. Going somewhere different, leaving your comfort zone. Above all it is about energy, enthusiasm, ambition, open-mindedness and curiosity.
If all this is true then “adventure” is not only daft things like rowing oceans, climbing mountains, cycling round the world. Adventure is everywhere, every day and it is just up to us to make the effort to seek it out.

You don’t have to have huge adventures all the time: I accept that we all have to pragmatically juggle our “real lives” too. You can have a small adventure, I say. You can have a very, very small adventure. And so the idea of microadventures was born.

They began as provocatively mundane “expeditions” – microadventures documented through microblogging (Twitter). I walked home for Christmas. I walked a lap of the M25 motorway.

I genuinely felt that these little trips gave me many of the same benefits and rewards as proper adventures. I decided to spend a whole year practicing what I preached: a year focussed solely on small, simple microadventures exploring my own country. I would make a video for each one and share it online.

I was worried about this idea. My “job” is writing and speaking about big trips, big plans. What on earth was I doing planning to mess around on overnight jaunts and commuter bicycles? And from a personal point of view, would I find it frustrating, boring and too easy?

How wrong I was! I have had a lot of fun, learned a lot about film making and discovered wonderful new corners of Britain. More rewarding though has been how the idea has been received. People seem to “get” the idea that, even though we are busy we can still find (must still find) small pockets of time to test ourselves and to get away from the noise and clutter of modern life, out into wildness. To sleep under the stars, stand on a hilltop, swim in a river and swap Twitter for birdsong, if only for a short while.

I have received emails from loads of people, from as far afield as North America, Australia and Japan, from people who have been prodded to go and try something like this for the first time, often taking their kids with them too. Someone even stole the spirit of microadventures and quoted it word for word as his own idea in a speech at a conference. I’ve chosen to see that as a compliment!

It was also a year designed to bust some of the wimpish, pessimistic excuses I often hear. Here’s a few of them with links to my responses.

I’m going to finish with two final things that confirmed for me that this was a year well spent. To my complete surprise I was nominated as one of National Geographic’s Adventurers of the Year (be sure to vote for the two sherpas who I want to win overall).

And I received an email from Mark Twight. I’ve mentioned him often on this blog (here, here and here). Mark is a great climber, he founded Gym Jones, wrote the superb (if uncomfortable) Kiss or Kill and is a self-confessed elitist. Having cheerfully spent the past year encouraging unfit people to wobble off on rusty bicycles to camp for just one night a couple of miles down the road, I opened the message with trepidation. Here are a few excerpts…

“What I fight against is the tendency for human beings to put forth less than our best effort when trying to accomplish an objective we have described as important. I am starting to believe the objective is irrelevant and all that matters is the curiosity, the commitment, the effort and analysis of it because these are the “components” that cause us to grow and change regardless of what we are doing.

Of course, certain objectives force us to overcome ourselves in a very commanding way and these are often held in higher esteem. I could use Hemingway’s big three of car racing, mountain climbing and bullfighting but it could be anything where the physical risk / danger facilitates a limit-shattering effort or performance.

But the activity itself need not be life-threatening to produce growth or change if it is undertaken with requisite commitment, and practiced with the highest level of effort one can muster despite the discomfort and fear it causes. And this is where the microadventure idea plucked a chord. The M25? I looked it up on a map. Are you f-ing mad? Of course you are. But… you conceived the journey and immersed yourself in it, totally. Saw it through, opened your mind to whatever could and did happen along the way. Paid attention. Noticed. And the point was not simply to close the loop so you could say you did it (as so many marathons and triathlons are treated) but to have the experience, to push and pull and participate fully in the process. Apply that ideal to anything and you become something (more) along the way.

“All in, or not at all” is the cure for mediocre performance: headfirst, into the deep end (or the river) and see it through right along the ragged edge of your own, individual potential. Leave the comparisons [with elite expeditions] out of it. If you can look back afterward and truthfully admit to having given everything then the result of any comparison to others does not matter.

Keep doing what you are doing,
Mark

So I will keep doing what I am doing. I’ll keep encouraging people to take their first tiny steps towards starting to live adventurously. And I will keep heading off on microadventures of my own.

But I am also itching to get back to big stuff. With a bit of luck, some hard work and an expedition sponsor… [get in touch!], I hope that 2012 will see me row across the Atlantic Ocean and trek, at last, to the South Pole.

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and thank you for reading my blog this year.
Al

The Year in Video – a selection:

1. Enter a race

2. Use your weekend

3. Sleep on a hill

4. 24 Hour Bivvy Challenge

5. Back to Basics

6. Exploring Islands

7. Source to Sea

8. River Swim

9. Grab a Map. Close your Eyes. Point. Go

10. Mountain Microadventure

11. Evangelise!

My Year Reviewed in 400 Seconds

Al Humphreys — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 10:29:09 +0000

2011 was my year of microadventure.

Britain’s most brutal race

Al Humphreys — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 15:47:57 +0000

I’m fond of adventures close to home. I also enjoy gruelling challenges. There is generally a perception that the two are not compatible. Many people, myself included, have done ultramarathons around the world. But you shouldn’t need to travel far to have a miserable time!

So I was pleased to receive an email from Scott Gilmour telling me about a 268 mile ultramarathon here in Britain. Get involved!

The Spine is a non-stop, 268 mile, winter mountain marathon that encompasses the entire Pennine Way. The course features over 30,000 feet of ascent, and covers some of the most challenging terrain found in England. The Pennine Way is a notoriously challenging trail in good conditions. In winter it will test even the most disciplined.

There are 3 classes of entry Elite (6 Days), Open (7 Days) and the 100 mile Challenger (70 hours). As this is a non-stop race you are master of your own destiny. For details on the different classes visit the race website here:

www.thespinerace.com

We decided to organise the race as there was space on the UK circuit for a race such as this. Britain has one of the world’s best ultra-marathon calendars and some truly innovative and challenging events. If we can add something to this we would be very proud.

Entries for the 268 mile race close at midnight (GMT) on the 16 December 2011.

Kind regards,

Scott Gilmour

Race Director

The Spine: Britain’s most brutal race

M: +447538083177

E: email hidden; JavaScript is required

Mountain Microadventure Video

Al Humphreys — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 16:05:03 +0000

I don’t think anyone should need to apologise for using ACDC as a soundtrack for a glorious summer burn-up on the mountain bikes. But just in case I do need to apologise… it was for Alex, my partner on this challenge, who loves that stuff. I tried to convert him to Springsteen but without success!

So here is the video for the 10th microadventure of the year. I hope you like it.

Mountain Microadventure

Al Humphreys — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 08:50:17 +0000

If you can spare five seconds I’ll tell you the story of my life. Or at least I can sum up this story: there are challenges and adventures at the very limit of your capabilities right here in Britain. You just need to go find them.
A mere 12km of walking on the hilltops of little old Britain. It doesn’t sound much. It looked impressive though; my first sight of the Cuillin Ridge was from many miles away, across the sea, looking over the water towards those far blue mountains. I was heading to Skye on a whim to climb dangerous mountains with a man I’d never met, who had read my books then emailed me after we both entered a stupid winter mountain bike race. (He won the race. I just about survived it.)
Alex’s idea appealed immediately: to mountain bike cross country to the sea, paddle over the sea to the mountains, and then attempt the formidable Cuillin Ridge. A triathlon of microadventures through some of the finest landscapes in Britain? I’m on my way, I replied.

So we began from ‘S’* (“Good pub there” is the guaranteed comment from those who know it), pedalling happily into the glen, excited to be on the move, delighted by the weather which appeared to be holding and which was crucial to our success.

The path was narrow singletrack, strewn with rocks and ditches. I quickly realised that the hills of Surrey are inadequate preparation for the skill levels needed for mountain biking through the Scottish highlands. However, in between my stumbles, foot-downs, and a comic straight-over-the-handlebars-into-a-bog it was beautiful, remote riding. On all sides barren peaks rose from the green glen into a warm blue sky. And silence. We passed a loch, perfect for a swim, but we had miles to go before nightfall so we pressed on, hurtling along an exhilarating sweeping descent down to the blue sea and a sweeping bay. Its isolation was accentuated by a single house, built bang in the middle of the curving bay far from electricity or running water.

We rode onwards, up a bugger of a hill and blasted wooping down the other side, down to a tight little bay and the beginning of the second phase of our Highland triathlon microadventure. We needed now to paddle out into the sea, across the bay to the base of the impressive mountain range before us. Whilst I inflated my beloved packraft Alex chatted with his friend Colin who’d met us here armed with a couple of sea-kayaks.

The day was hot and the paddle was a joy. It was a windy day with the white clouds flying. And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
Waves cooled my face and soaked my clothes as my blunt packraft battered the swell. I struggled to make headway against the headwind (the curse not only of cyclists but also, I have learned, the packrafter too). Packrafts are the jacks of all trades but the masters of none (I feel an affinity!) and as I watched the two sea kayaks pull easily away from me I knew that I was in for a long drag if we were to reach the other side before nightfall.

But it is a special thing, being in a boat. Your view is a privileged one, inaccessible to all those mere mortals left behind on the shore. Jellyfish pulsed and drifted, pretty pink and white, through the clear blue brine. The shore gradually receded behind us with each pull on the paddle. Blisters bubbled on my hands as the mountains ahead of us loomed a little larger with each small stroke. We were paddling westward into the dazzling evening sun. Liquid stars fell from our paddles and burst over the bows of my boat. At last, tired, wet, but happy we reached the lee of the mountains, sheltered from the headwind and I could lie back in my packraft and relax.

We were in the mouth of a secluded loch, tucked tight into a brooding cleft at the base of the mountains that thrust steeply straight up from the shore. The Cuillins are the ancient eroded remains of a vast volcano lip and they curved spectacularly high above us jagged and menacing like rotted black stumps of teeth.
It is hard to imagine a more beautiful sea paddle in Britain, and I grinned in smug delight once again at my decision to dedicate a year to searching for wildness and adventure here in my own country. Alex was thrilled as well. Although he knew Skye well and was a regular climber and mountain biker here, he had never experienced a paddle such as this. Even in your backyard there are new adventures, new sights, new perspectives: you just have to make the small effort to go and discover them.

Alex pointed behind me and I turned to look. A dozen seals were peering curiously at us from damp dark eyes. Two snorted and dived. The rest watched us quizzically as we paddled smoothly towards the shore past a couple of seal pups still in their juvenile white fur. Two terns, the whitest, sleekest of sea birds, shrieked low overhead, concerned for the young in their nests. We though were concerned only for food, for we had been long on the move and were ready for dinner. We pulled our boats up onto the shore beside a small river.

As Alex boiled a big pan of pasta I followed the course of the river – surely one of Britain’s shortest – from the sea up through just a couple of hundred gentle metres to its beginning at Loch C. I had wanted to visit this spot for years. I learned about it in the book Wild Places by Robert Macfarlane. He writes…

“We reached the entrance to C at dusk. Cliffs on one side, and a cut wall of rock, waterfall-seamed, on the other. As we passed between the cliffs I felt a strong sense of having crossed a portal, or stepped over a threshold.”

We slept on the shore and then – too soon – we woke up again. 3am. Time to begin the third phase of our adventure: to tackle the famous Cuillin Ridge back to the pub at S. We hoped to reach it in time for last orders. Only 12km stood between us and beer and yet we had allowed 20 hours to get there. That should give an indication of the difficulties that stood in our way.
We left Colin sleeping (he would paddle home towing the spare kayak when he woke) and began climbing through the darkness. By sunrise we were atop our first Munro (any Scottish mountain with a height over 3,000 ft (914.4 m)) enjoying a staggeringly beautiful view of mountains, sea and islands.

This summit (Gars-bheinn) serves as the start point of the ridge challenge and we began at a good speed and in high spirits. The weather was beautiful, we’d made a really early start: everything was looking good. We made good speed for a couple of hours hiking, jumping and scrambling our way along the ridge. On both sides was sky, a lot of sky, and a long, long way to fall on both sides. The views were as beautiful as from an aeroplane. But we could spare only a few glances for full attention was needed to concentrate on our footing and route finding at all times. It may seem strange that route finding is difficult high on an exposed ridge, but it’s a jumbled rocky chaos up there and progress was hellish hard. At one point Alex leaped across a gap then turned to watch me.
“I recommend you don’t look here – just jump.”
I jumped.
Then I looked down.
A long way down.
Deep
breath.
Push on.

My admiration for people who run the length of the ridge in just 3.5 hours turned to amazement as we reached the first climbing section. These mountain madmen scamper up and down cliffs which, to my wimpish eye, looked frankly terrifying. I was happy indeed to be roped up as we wriggled our way up very difficult (VD) and mildly severe (MS) rock faces and abseiled down the other side. These climbing sections, we felt, were the only likely things to stop us finishing our challenge so we were chuffed to be ticking them off.

I am no climber and I do not intend to become one. I enjoyed the puzzle and the challenge of solving the riddle of hand and feet holds to heave yourself up a vertical face. But I did so with very little enthusiasm for looking down between my feet to enjoy the views. The technical term for this yawning empty space is ‘Exposure’. I do not like Exposure one bit! But I found it fascinating to face it. I was tied securely to a rope. I was safe. But I did not feel safe. And that alone meant that this was a perfect microadventure: I was out of my comfort zone, I was pushing myself hard mentally and physically. I was learning about myself and peeling back my boundaries.

The most spectacular spot on the ridge is the marvellously named Inaccessible Pinnacle, described in Wild Places like this:

“a shark’s fin of black rock that jags hundreds of feet out of the ridge which had long been, to my mind, one of the wildest points in the world…
I felt a quick buzz of fear, remembering the description of the Pinnacle by one of its first ascensionists: ‘a knife-edge ridge with an overhanging and infinite drop on one side, and a drop on the other side even steeper and longer’.”

The Inaccesible Pinancle was the symbolic high point of the challenge. The view from the top was extraordinary, even if I was clinging to the rock with a vice-like grip. Unfortunately from here on things went downhill. My knee reacted badly to the terrain and, after eight hours up on the ridge I was moving like an old man. There was no way I would make it the whole way so we were forced to drop down from the ridge and concede defeat.
I was not happy to have failed, especially through something as random and uncontrollable as an injury. The triathlon microadventure challenge had been such a good one. I was disappointed to have let Alex down.
But I was also quite impressed to have failed. Britain is not a particularly wild place. You don’t tend to get beaten by the landscapes here. So I was impressed to have been humbled by these ancient, awesome mountains. I had underestimated them (the only other British challenge that I have underestimated is the Bob Graham Round). It eased one of my slight worries of this year of microadventure that, through trying to encourage others to challenge themselves, that I was not particularly challenging myself.
Mountains do not care how you fare on their slopes and summits. They were around for millions of years before your petty quest began, and they’ll still be standing beautiful yet uncaring when our grandchildren’s grandchildren feel the same restless urges to test themselves. Sure, you go and pit your wits, your skills, your guts, your luck against them. You might win, you might lose. But they don’t care either way. Maybe that’s part of their appeal. It’s certainly a good metaphor for doing big stuff in life:
Do it for the doing, not for the praise of others. And don’t be put off trying big stuff by the fear of failure.
The mountains don’t think any less of me because I failed. And they are far more impressive than the office jobs-worth whiner who loves to sneer at you if you fail something.
So I failed this microadventure. But I did far more than if I had not even begun. And I now have an excuse, should one be needed, to return soon to the wild places of Skye for some unfinished business.

* I’m not mentioning names here for the same reason I try to avoid placing maps of my trips on this site: the world is full of spectacular spots and it’s better to go find your own hidden gems rather than following someone else’s prescription. Plus, selfishly, I want to keep the ones I find to myself. On the other hand they are not particularly secret spots: anyone who knows Skye will know where I am referring to. And I am aware that even if 100% of my blog readers converged on Skye that there would be more than enough room for both of you.