tracksterman

As a kid, my favourite ripping yarn was this book, still available at a ludicrously cheap price. It’s the politically incorrect tale of three plucky British climbers on Everest, swept by an avalanche into a heated volcanic basin. From there, they find their way into a series of luminescent catacombs, encountering the lost descendants of British survivors of the 1857 Great Mutiny. They arrive just in time to foil an attack by the degraded, subhuman descendants of native servants, who have mutated after prolonged contact with radioactive rock and developed the power of paralysis. Fortunately, our three heroes are protected from this by the rubber suits (!) they were wearing for their Everest summit bid…

I’ve still got the 1954 edition; I dig it out and re-read it every few years. It’s a great tale, although it’s fair to say that the quite remarkably casual racism would prevent it ever getting published today. At just over a quid it’s got to be worth a punt.

Back in October I mused briefly on the nature of modern ‘adventure.’ This cracking piece by Andy Kirkpatrick has spurred me to get off my arse and follow that up. We live in times of globalisation, cultural homogenisation, rapid transport and communications, ubiquitous internet access, dispiriting mass package tourism and universal ATM machines. That’s meant a real improvement in the quality of life for tens of millions of people, hard to be grumpy about that - but it’s also made it more difficult to have a true ‘adventure.’

Adventure is not a relative term. Just because you (or I) find something difficult and physically challenging doesn’t make it an adventure. Example: there’s a booming industry in charity ‘challenges’, mundane walks or bike rides of a week’s duration, organised for you and fully supported by a back-up team. They’re sold as ‘adventures’ so that the people doing them can feel good about themselves (and convince family, friends and colleagues to pay for their holidays). These experiences might indeed be challenging for those taking part due to their lack of fitness or mental fortitude - but to describe them as adventures is patently absurd. And don’t even get me started on the way the word ‘epic’ is bandied about…

It’s not an adventure if you can telephone for help and realistically expect it to arrive. It’s not an adventure if, faced with a problem, you can log on to the internet and ask legions of people for (usually hopeless) advice. It’s not an adventure if you can can simply withdraw loadsamoney from a hole in the wall and throw it at your problems to make them go away. Adventure involves more than exposing oneself to a level of discomfort you’re not accustomed to, or having difficulties as a result of your own incompetence and inexperience. 

By these criteria, long distance cycling isn’t an adventure. Neither is rowing the Atlantic (evidence would suggest you’re more at risk going on a Mediterranean cruise with an Italian captain at the wheel). Man-hauling your way to one of the Poles is simply a plodding, masturbatory exercise in self punishment; a peculiarly British fondness for a mode of Arctic travel that was thoroughly discredited by Amundsen over 100 years ago.

Climbers like Kirkpatrick ‘get it’ and, while I’m not a great fan of Joe Simpson’s writing, he covers the subject well in ‘The Beckoning Silence’, possibly his best book. But when I look at those pictures of hundred of ‘adventurers’ queueing up to get at the summit of Everest, it makes me shudder. It’s the complete antithesis of what being in mountains is supposed to be all about. Do you think they get it?

The SL3’s on its way back to the UK for a date with Scottish Mountain Gear. The zip was getting temperamental enough that I could no longer be sure it’d last a trip. It’s not the zip as such but rather the slider, a common failure due to wear and tear. Cheap and easy to replace (as I found out just a bit too often with Terra Nova tents I’ve had in the past). The SL3 zip slider lasted much better than expected given the number of days it’s got on it. I’m getting it swapped out for one that’ll enable me to open the door from either top or bottom, rather than just a one-way job.

I’m holding off making more mods to the shelter because I’m not sure it’s got enough life left in it for that to be cost-effective. The nylon’s developing something of a ‘crisp packet’ feel to it, and I suspect UV exposure might be taking its toll. Whether I’d replace it with the current incarnation of the SL3 is debatable. GoLite have changed their retail model in the UK, making their gear harder to get hold of (and thus more expensive). I’ve also heard enough anecdotal evidence of premature failure and shoddy quality that I’m a bit wary of buying one, to be honest.

No, not me - the 1939 book by Geoffrey Household. I saw the Peter O’Toole TV adaptation as a kid in the 1970s and it left a strong impression on me (I remember being rather upset by the cat incident). It’s now available on the Kindle, and I just finished it in more-or-less one sitting. It’s very much a book of its time, but that doesn’t mean it’s a simplistic ‘Boy’s Own’ ripping yarn; I was surprised by its depth and jaundiced cynicism.

‘A hideous word - hiker. It has nothing to do with the gentle souls of my youth who wandered in tweeds and stout shoes from pub to pub. But, by God, it fits those bawling Englishwomen whose tight shorts and loose voices are turning every beauty spot in Europe into a Skegness holiday camp.’

Well worth a read…