With only a week to prepare, I embarked on the mammoth hiking challenge that is the Yorkshire Three Peaks.
“How hard can it be?” I thought to myself.
I had an OS map of England rolled out on the kitchen table and was inspecting the Yorkshire Dales National Park beneath the grid squares. I tapped my finger on the summit of Pen-y-ghent (694 m), then followed the trail-marker dashes leading across a steep series of contour lines to Whernside (736 m), then over to the final peak of Ingleborough (723 m).
Three peaks, 1,600 metres of ascent, 24 miles in under 12 hours – the Yorkshire Three Peaks Challenge.
One week later I was driving north, five hours up the M6 to a campsite at Horton in Ribblesdale, Yorkshire. The weather was looking mixed. The tail end of a storm was curling in off the Irish Sea which was meant to be followed by a high-pressure system of sunshine and calm days. As I left home, I still didn’t know which one I’d get.
I parked my car against a stone wall that backed onto a field dotted with grazing sheep and pitched my tent looking out over the fells. It was overcast, and the wind was starting to pick up which made me nervous. I strolled along the road to find the trailhead and began to walk towards Pen-y-ghent, the first of the three peaks.
The summit was hidden beneath a veil of grey cloud and the sky over the valley was beginning to darken. Swallowing a sense of unease I returned to the campsite and began to brew a tea on my camp stove to take my mind off things. Next, I ran through a routine check of my equipment for the following day: anorak, waterproof trousers, hat, sunglasses, sun cream. Gear for all weather, still hopeful.
Six a.m.
Wind snapping at the canvas of my tent and the patter of rain above me. I sighed as another gust strained the poles holding up the thin shelter shielding me from the elements. Residing myself to my fate, I wolfed down a bowl of porridge, picked up my bag, and slipped out of the tent into the rising storm.
I was drenched before I reached the foot of the first summit. Slanting rain and low-hanging cloud swept across the grassy hill, obscuring the views and limiting the visibility to 10-20 metres in all directions. I pushed on, step by step climbing the sodden stone to reach the first peak. The higher I hiked, the more the wind began to howl.
By the time I’d reached Pen-y-ghent, my waterproofs had turned soapy and were leaking rain onto my dry clothes. I shivered and tapped the summit marker with a grimace on my face: one down, two to go. Turning to look at the swirling mist all around me, a thought crossed my mind, “…harder than you might think.”
