Emily: Hello Jo! It’s been a long time since we last featured you. What adventures/work have you been up to?

It’s been 6 years and so much has happened since our last chat. I’m now 54 and can proudly say that I am a 7 Summits mountaineer!

[Emily: whoop whoop!!!]

When we last spoke I had completed 5 of the 7 Summits, the highest mountain on each of the seven continents. I was getting ready to head off to Carstensz Pyramid in Indonesia and then to finish off with Vinson in Antarctica, both in 2019. Carstensz was put on hold due to civil unrest in West Papua, where the mountain lies, so Vinson in Antarctica became number six.

Finally, after five cancellations and seven years of trying, I finally stood on the summit of Carstensz Pyramid, the lowest of the Seven, on the 21st March this year (2025). What a joy to finally have this project concluded with over £45,000 raised for children’s mental health charity Place2Be.

In that time, I have also navigated the menopause - a rollercoaster in itself - and am thankfully coming out the other side stronger and more determined to live a purposeful life!

Emily: What was the More Than A Mountain expedition and how did it come about?

In 2023 I decided to put together an expedition, to be run in 2025, which would celebrate the 50th anniversary of the first woman to summit Everest in 1975 and one that would also honour those lost in the earthquake which rocked Nepal in 2015. I was at Camp 1 on Everest during the earthquake and still remember it so vividly.

Having read Junko Tabei’s book Honouring High Places, I knew she had led a small team on the accessible 5500m mountain Yala Peak, which lies in the Langtang Valley of Nepal, two years after her Everest success. Langtang Village was destroyed in the earthquake on 25th April 2015 and our route took us through the old and new villages. A great chance to pay our respects to those lost during that fateful earthquake.

Emily: Who was Junko Tabei and who is she to you?

On 16th May 1975, Junko became the first woman in the world to summit Everest. She was climbing leader for the Japanese Women’s Everest Expedition. Despite nearly being killed by an avalanche at Camp 2 on the mountain, 12 days later she stood on the summit with her climbing sherpa, Ang Tsering Sherpa. A moment in the shadows of history that I, as well as fellow Everest summiteers and others, are keen to unhide so many women in mountaineering.

So few people have heard of her. She was a trailblazer for women in mountaineering, encouraging others to climb with her and fulfil their potential in life. A favourite saying of mine is where she writes in Honouring High Places “Everest - I would love to go… but. I found it difficult to hear people crush their dreams with the word ‘but’.” A phrase I use often in my talks now: how are you going to bin your buts!

Emily: Can you tell us a bit more about the Yala Peak expedition?

In April of this year, a team of 14 fabulous women and I - with ages ranging from 29 to 71, including Adventurous Ewe’s director Sue Blunt and fellow Everest summiteer, Tori James (the first Welsh woman to summit Everest) - set off to climb Yala Peak, walking in the footsteps of Junko Tabei. It was an honour to have followed her route and stood on the same peak as she did 48 years ago. We had such an incredible time, tough in places, and full of laughter and support. I wish I could have bottled the essence of this expedition. It was wonderful.

Emily: Did you always intend to make a film?

No, not at all! Originally I was ‘just’ going to lead this expedition with a fabulous group of women. Then we thought about capturing our journey on iPhones and making a short 5 minutes film, just for us. It grew legs, and wings, and is now a beautiful 20 minute homage to Junko and the wonderful women on the expedition, More Than A Mountain.

The film encourages others to bin their buts, just as my team of women did. I see the film as a broader way of celebrating the achievements of Junko, not only for Everest but in life in general. She was also the first woman to complete the 7 summits, so I walked in her footsteps on all of the mountains. She climbed in 95 countries and set up the Junko Tabei Foundation to support school children to climb Mt Fuji, as well as support environmental projects. She was all about giving back.

If you’d like to help fund the More Than A Mountain film, they are 98% of the way to their target! See details on the project’s JustGiving page. [Edit: they are now funded!!]

The film is also being premiered during an evening of celebration for Junko Tabei at Kendal Mountain Festival on 20th November, if you’re attending. If you are unable to make the premiere, the film will be available on the Kendal Mountain Player shortly after the festival concludes.

For more about Jo Bradshaw, you can visit her website jobradshaw.co.uk or follow her on instagram @_jobradshaw

To keep reading, here’s our mid-seven summits interview with Jo Bradshaw. (Bonus prize: ideas on how to pose for photos with an ice axe.)

Want more like this? Subscribe to Intrepid Magazine

Become a free subscriber to get weekly articles like this. Become a paid member to join a community of female adventurers and supporters.

Subscribe :)

I’d only met Jo online before and she has an inspiring story. She’d taken up stand-up paddleboarding at 50, after some big life events. At the time, she called herself a mid-life adventurer and had recently started her The Joy of SUP podcast. Because SUP had given her so much joy - as it had so many others - and she wanted to share these stories with the world and spread that joy. (Truly, Jo is one of the most joyful people I know.)

Sitting at that picnic table we talked about life and work and what was happening in the world and the adventure industry. She was working on her first guidebook, for Vertebrate Publishing, a stand-up paddleboarding guide to the UK. But there was another book in her heart, a book of stories, a book she hoped she’d be able to write one day.

So I was very pleased to receive an email from Vertebrate Publishing last month, announcing the forthcoming publication of Adventures on the Water: The power of paddleboarding to change lives.

The Blurb:

“Adventures on the Water explores the uplifting and restorative power of stand-up paddleboarding (SUP). Compiled and edited by passionate paddleboarder and adventure advocate Jo Moseley, it features personal stories and collected wisdom from a wide range of Jo’s fellow paddlers. Immerse yourself in the physical and mental health benefits of paddleboarding, as well as the warm and inclusive community around the sport.”

There are 25 stories and about 70% of them are told by women.

The Giveaway:

Better still, Vertebrate have sent me two copies to give away to subscribers. On 1st November, I’ll randomly select two subscribers (based in the UK only, I’m afraid I can’t deal with international postage) to win a paperback copy each.

On top of that, they’ve allowed everyone who subscribes to receive a 1 chapter digital preview of the book (which I’ll send out on 1st November too).

If you’re receiving this email direct from Intrepid Magazine you’re already entered into the giveaway. If you were sent this by a friend, please click the friendly subscribe button below.

Subscribe :)

You do NOT need to be a paid subscriber to enter. And you can always immediately unsubscribe after 2nd November if you don’t like it here.

More about the book and Jo:

Now, if you don’t want to leave things up to chance, you can buy your own copy of the book (paperback or hardback) direct from Vertebrate Publishing here. Or order it from any good bookshop.

In the meantime, you can read Jo’s article about writing a guidebook here:

And/or watch her film Brave Enough, about paddleboarding coast to coast, 162 miles from Liverpool to Goole. It’s also about anxiety, grief and being a single mum. (Highly recommended.) The trailer is here.

For even more, you can find Jo on substack as (linked) and on her website jomoseley.com or her podcast.

Stay intrepid,

Emily

The good news, or so I thought, was that I had Serge to help me. The Swiss guide, a man who moved like a chamois and weighed less than me, would be there when things got difficult. From above, as I lie splayed across the mountainside, he shouts, ''Do not fall.''

If the thought of skiing uphill sounds like hard work, you are not alone. But ski touring is booming and so I decided on a tour across the Swiss Alps, to find out if it was worth the effort. Touring ticks many boxes: open spaces, fitness and adventure. It also has a significantly lower impact than traditional resort skiing. For me, ski touring offers access to the wildest part of the Alps, but it is hard on mind and body. Regardless, I was in Switzerland ready to earn my views. 

Day 1 - Leukerbad to Lammernen Hut

We left the comfort of the spa town of Leukerbad. One cable car later, we attached skins to skis and set off into the snow. Serge cut a trail, avoiding the avalanche-loaded south slope. Above us lay a plateau of heavy snow that could slide easily and set like concrete. I was nervous. To move through the gully, I had to kick turn (this is like performing the splits with wooden planks strapped to your feet). I try. I am stuck. After a demonstration from Serge and several expletives, I get the gist. 

Above the gully, the mountains open up to the Wildstrubel. The wind whips the snow from the summits and spindrift hangs in the sunlit air. ''Welcome to wild nature,'' says Serge. It is serene and beautiful; I know this is why I came.

Four hours and 1000m later I am relieved to see the Lammernen hut. It was warm, safe and virtually empty. Each of the six-bed dorms contain two shelves of bunk beds. Luckily, I have a room to myself. Luxury comes in the form of privacy and a long drop toilet. As the sun sets amongst the rocks, we spot a fox, an ibex and a rare Griffon Vulture.

A group of Italian tourers arrive by headtorch just before dinner. Soup, cheesy pasta and the Swiss version of Angel Delight prove rich and plentiful. The room is buzzing with multilingual conversation and a universal atmosphere of survival. I turn in early and try to keep warm under the fusty duvet. Through the curtainless window, the moon is full and bright – the perfect ending to a wild day. 

Day 2 - Daubenhorn

The next morning, after a hearty breakfast, we leave to climb the Daubenhorn. It looks foreboding. ''It is exposed at the top, and we might need a belay,'' says Serge. Panic rises. The belay is a rope that will tie us together. Should I fall, Serge will slam his axe into the ice to stop us. I consider Serge's 50kg frame doubtfully.

The snow on the final ascent is wind-polished to ice; we cut a ledge with the axe. With my whole weight on about one inch of ski, I hold my breath and, unbelievably, I do not fall. Between me and the summit is 50 metres of exposed ridge. I kick footholds into the snow with my ski boots and pull myself up. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the drop: the 1400m of limestone cliff that falls away to Leukerbad. ''Check out the view,'' says Serge. I don't look.

 A metal chain pulls me towards the summit cross; I turn to see endless 4000m peaks stretching into a pink horizon. The fear and memory of the effort fall away. We make a dreamy descent in feather-light powder, creating perfect turns through the pristine expanse until we hit the valley floor.

At Sierre station, I say goodbye to Serge and toast my trip with hot chocolate. I sit on the platform and stare up to the summits. A quote by John Muir plays through my mind, ''In every walk in nature, one receives far more than he seeks.'' I know it will not be long before my next ski tour.

How to do this Ski Tour

Getting there: Geneva (Geneva airport and train station are approximately 200km from Leukerbad). From Geneva, you can travel by taxi or private car. For public transport, take the train to Leuk and then the bus to Leukerbad.

Money:  There is currently around Swiss Franc CHF1.10 to the UK£. Payment by cash is generally expected in all huts. Expect to pay £6 for a beer in a hut.

When to go: Europe's hut-to-hut season is from mid-March to mid-May. Day tours are possible all winter. Daytime temperatures in spring can be below 0°C or up to 20°C; at night, they usually plunge below 0°C.

Health & safety: Travel insurance that covers snow sports is essential; check out the Austrian Alpine Club UK that is you can join from any country outside of Austria (Austrians join their local branch). Extra helicopter rescue can be found here if desired.

The tour: I travelled with Serge Lambert, a certified mountain guide. Details of the guide office are here. The day rate for a guide is around £400 a day which can be split between up to 6 guests. For hut-to-hut touring, you need to be a confident skier with some off-piste experience. For off-piste tuition or ski touring skills courses, try Mountain Tracks.

What to pack: You can hire touring skis, skins, and boots in most resorts for around £30 a day. You can also rent a transceiver, shovel, and probe. For hut-to-hut tours, take a 40-litre rucksack. The huts will provide sheets and duvets. Sleeping bag liners are compulsory.

Bel Jackson Prow is an adventure travel writer who is passionate about mountains and the transformational power of adventure. You can follow her on Substack too: The Adventure Path!

Over the months leading up to my departure, friends, colleagues and, of course, my mother have all vociferously declared it very brave of me to go it alone for the week. I don’t understand at all. The first woman to climb Everest did so before I was even born, back in 1975. Jasmin Paris recently broke all existing records at the Montane Spine Race ultramarathon whilst breastfeeding her baby. And my own hero, Dervla Murphy, Irish cyclist and travel maniac, ventured alone to remote and dangerous parts as far back as the 1960s. So why is a woman still seen as heroic to go for an unaccompanied cycling holiday in Europe, less than 1,000 miles from her front door? 

Jealous Much?

“I wish I could do that,” I’ve heard from several friends. They are all independent, single women in their thirties and each one keen to have their own personal adventure just like this one. I can’t understand what’s stopping them. Especially after we’ve all had to go through such an unprecedented term of curtailed opportunity, shouldn’t we be desperately trying to claw our way out of the box any way we can? 

In summary, I’m traveling through western countries, sleeping in comfortable hotels (with the odd exception, it turns out) and foraging in local convenience stores for precious calories en route. It certainly doesn’t feel very brave to be sitting on a soft bed each night, enjoying some Netflix, reading a decent book or catching up with some online correspondence.

Army of One

So what is it about this innocuous trip that has made me seem so daring to all and sundry? Is it the lack of practical support? Someone to help change a tyre or help to carry the day’s rations? As far as I opine, if someone else can check a map, so can I. I don’t need anyone to work out the exchange rate or haggle over the price of a drink from a roadside stall. Anyone can do it, so why need there be more than one? It’s much easier to agree on something if you’re a party of one. 

For me, the hours alone in the saddle are the best bit. Generally speaking, the fewer people you meet, the less likely you are to come across trouble along the way. Had I spent a weekend in Paris - where crime is rife - I doubt anyone would’ve been concerned for my welfare or impressed by my apparent courageousness. Now, I did get bitten by a snake yesterday morning, but that could happen to anyone, right? It was only a tiny snake, so no big deal. It was cute :)

Embracing the Unknown

To me, this is far from an intrepid adventure, though it’s an awesome enough experience, for sure. Each morning I fervently anticipate each pedal stroke and whatever excitement it may bring. I’ve done the basic research - so I know in which direction I’m heading - but not so much that I haven’t left room for surprises. Surely therein lies the key to a true adventure.

So far I’ve tracked a majestic Eastern Imperial Eagle for several miles across farmland, bathed naked in an iridescent lake and inadvertently joined a stage of the Giro d’Italia cycle race. I’ve made friends with a tiny kitten living under a bridge, been serenaded by accordion at a riverside café and later I’m off to explore a WW2-era bunker that’s now a fruit farm. I can’t say any of that was planned! 

Going it Alone

I’m no hermit. In fact you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who knows me who’d describe me as an introvert. But like most people I also need my alone time, time to recharge and reflect. When I’ve taken short city breaks on my own I’ve often wished I had someone travelling with me, especially in the evenings, but this time it’s different. Right now I need my space. In fact, I’m craving it. That hasn’t stopped me sharing snaps of my routine mid-morning coffee stops or random insects I’ve found hitching a ride on my panniers - and wishing friends a happy birthday via WhatsApp. They’re right with me every bit of the way and that’s company enough this time around.  

Soon I’ll be living alone for the first time in my life, so this is maybe just an introduction to that world of me, myself and I that lies ahead. But I already know that I’ll never really be alone and certainly not lonely. I’m sure you’ll agree that we’re all too connected these days for that to happen, unless we really want it to. The sound of silence doesn’t scare me, in fact I relish the clarity it brings. So why should solo female adventure only be for the brave? Let’s all take a bit of it for ourselves. 

I’m not brave. I’m just not afraid. 

Jenny-Anne Dexter is a perennial participant in all things running, cycling and swimming.

This is an opinion piece and we’d love to hear your thoughts on solo adventures and bravery in the comments too. It’s been a while since we last published an opinion piece, so please remember to read in full and comment thoughtfully. There is enough anger in the world, let’s not add to it here. Thanks :)

Want more like this? Subscribe to Intrepid Magazine

Become a free subscriber to get weekly articles like this. Become a paid member to join a community of female adventurers and supporters - who want to go on crazy adventures like you!

Subscribe now

Membership gets you:

• Access to our private members’ space

• Online Library of 1000+ pages of adventure reading

• Gear testing (+ keep the kit), discounts and other opportunities

• Events and expeditions!

1. Choose an Objective

It may seem obvious, but first you need to have a goal, a purpose. For us it was initially to climb some mountains that nobody had ever climbed before. Personally, I had done this in Greenland, back in 2017, as part of the British Stauning Alps Expedition. It was a month long self-supported ski expedition and, in addition to research into the ice sheet, we made two first ascents.

The concept of going somewhere unexplored is enticing. It doesn't have to be a summit - just make sure your objective excites you, because you'll be researching it (and living it) for a while! We knew we wanted to complete some first ascents, and Kyrgyzstan was a place on many people's lips at the time, as a place with huge swathes of mountains that hadn't been tackled. So we put the two together. 

Finding The Team

At the same time as I was thinking about potential objectives, I started to think about the people I would like to be part of the team. This can really affect your plans. Perhaps you already have some people in mind, members of a club or friends that you tend to go on adventures with? The team I put together originally was made up of colleagues and friends who were outdoor instructors. I chose them because they are familiar with being outdoors in challenging environments and they have the technical skills to be safe - not to mention they were all lovely people.

Life does have a habit of getting in the way though - for us it was injuries and work commitments - and over the development of this project, the team has changed three times. As the team evolved, so did our objectives. We realised that climbing some new peaks would be an adventure, but sharing our remote living skills and combined experience within this new team would be another great objective. So now we have both exploration and education as our objectives.

2. Research your Mountains

The more you do, the better prepared you will be!

We took a fairly methodical approach to this because we had to narrow down everything from the entire country, to a region and eventually a specific valley. Our first job was to choose a region. We consulted the guidebook Mountaineering Regions of Kyrgyzstan by Vladimir Komissarov, an essential resource highlighting Kyrgyzstan’s many mountain ranges, and their key features. We simultaneously consulted ITMC, a logistics company based in Bishkek, to ask about regions they knew had potential for first ascents. Local logistics companies are a fantastic source of information, as well as providing physical resources to help your expedition run smoothly on the ground.

The Zaalay range stood out for its altitude, climate and lack of expeditions. So we then consulted Issue 37 of the Asian Alpine E-News, which included hand drawn maps of the Zaalay region, detailing climbed and unclimbed peaks for the entire range. 

Next came the ‘fun’ part. We plotted each of the peaks on Google Earth, providing a picture of the potential for first ascents for the entire Zaalay range. This was painstaking work as the hand drawn maps often had to be matched using glaciers and other topographical features. There was a lot of cross-referencing.

The ‘maps’ also only showed small sections and were not in any specific order, needing to be pieced together like a strange patchwork of doodles. In some ways we have to thank the global pandemic, because plotting individual summits into Google Earth based on hand drawn maps is incredibly time consuming. At least back in 2020 we had a lot of time! 

We now had a clearer picture of what had and hadn’t been climbed but this was only from one source. We then trawled the internet, trying to find trip reports from teams relating to the areas that interested us. We consulted reports from places such as the Royal Geographical Society, American Alpine Journal and the BMC.

Remember expedition reports won’t always be in English. We knew Russian teams, among others, had been completing expeditions in Kyrgyzstan. So we translated our search criteria into other languages to see what we could find. We were glad we were thorough because we found some peaks that weren’t mentioned in the original document. While you are reading these reports, it is also good to make a note of any tips or tricks that the teams learnt from their expeditions which might make your expedition a little easier.

The research didn’t stop there though

We selected four potential areas and researched logistics for vehicle/foot access and the potential for a base camp. We read a variety of expedition reports and journal articles relating to these areas. However, few groups had visited this part of the Zaalay mountains and none had attempted to enter our first-choice valley. There were three expeditions that had been close, so it was time to chat to their expedition leaders, albeit virtually because, well, pandemic.

We dusted off our very rusty school French, aided by Google translate, and fired off some other emails (thankfully in English) to request images from their expeditions, which could include more detail than Google Earth. We received replies from the two non-commercial expeditions and were astonished at how helpful their leaders were, providing photos and reports and a range of resources to help us. You really get a sense of how fantastic the exploration and expedition community is in moments like this, sharing their time and resources and really wanting you to succeed.

3. Find Funding

Once you have an outline plan in place, it’s time to start applying for some funding. Funding can be the difference between a comfortable expedition and a stressful expedition, so get searching the internet for grants and awards relevant for the kind of expedition you want to complete. There are more than you think, and I have heard that very often they don’t get enough applications so have a lovely pot of money waiting for you.

“get searching the internet for grants and awards relevant for the kind of expedition you want to complete”

Completing these application forms can take a long time and they all have different deadlines - some are very rigid, others less so. Although very often they want similar kinds of information, so once you have done one detailed application you can cannibalise it for other applications, tweaking the information depending on how they ask the question. Don’t be disheartened if you aren’t awarded everything. But when you are successful you’ll need a bank account to deposit the money into, so don’t forget to set this up. If your funding goals are still running a little short of your target you could consider crowdfunding and using your social media to promote your financial goal. You may need to offer incentives, so get creative!

Sponsorship in Kind

There is also the possibility of sponsorship. I wrote a document as part of an application for an award which never amounted to anything. But since it was a generic document in a fairly engaging tone, we also sent it to some gear companies to introduce them to our project and see if they would provide us with some equipment. We were very lucky that Mountain Equipment decided our team’s adventure was worth some shiny new kit. Never be afraid to ask, you never know where it might get you.

One final thing on this topic is that unless you see the kit in front of you, don’t pin your hopes on it. We had been promised some items fairly early on in the process but as time wore on they never materialised. That left us rushing to arrange replacements with less than six weeks to go. Always have a back up plan for any kit that is being arranged by someone else!

4. Plan the Logistics

Once you know where you are going and have a little funding behind you, that’s when the real work begins. Be under no illusions, planning an expedition like this can feel like a part time job at some points. You need to have time to sit down and consider lots of different elements, so don’t be afraid to delegate at this point. Asking your team mates for help will reduce your overall workload while ensuring everyone is engaged in an area of the planning. This also tied in nicely with the aim of our expedition being about skill sharing.

We communicated via WhatsApp regularly, ramping up massively as our departure date loomed. We created a Google Drive with folders for everything and ensured everyone in the team could access it for full visibility. If, like me, you love a good spreadsheet you’ll love planning an expedition. We created an Expedition Planner with various tabs for travel, medical supplies and an equipment list with weights to help work out our baggage allowances.

Luckily many countries have logistics companies who can help with the in-country arrangements for a fee. They can usually arrange transport, help find accommodation, provide items that you cannot take past customs or on flights - and also be a fabulous source of local information. Things to consider include:

Flights

More importantly, your baggage allowance. How much are you going to be taking in terms of personal kit and mountaineering kit? If your flights aren’t direct then additional luggage will be charged per flight so think about this. How light can you pack?

Transport

How will you get from the airport to your particular objectives? If you are taking overland transport, how long does it take and will you need to stop over on the journey? Will you therefore need to arrange accommodation? In Kyrgyzstan, you sometimes need off-road vehicles to reach the remoter areas.

Food

You never want to be hungry and you want to enjoy what you eat, so make sure you have food that is full of flavour. Oat cakes and mixed nuts were out! Think about the protein and calorie content. Will you have easy access to a base camp, where staff could cook for you? Or will you be more remote and carrying your food to your chosen objectives? Can you buy items at local markets so you don’t need to take food in your luggage? Food weight has been a big issue for our expedition.

Insurance

You need to make sure that all the standard aspects of travelling are covered, in addition to your chosen activities. Does the insurance cover remote rescue and repatriation? Do you need to register with your country’s mountain rescue service?

5. Think about Safety

It goes without saying that if you are planning to go on a remote expedition you need to have the skills and knowledge to complete your objectives safely. Training trips are a great way to ensure your team is well prepared in this respect. You also need to ensure you have the correct equipment.

Have a couple of different methods of communication, such as a satellite phone and an EPIRB. If there is an emergency then you need to have a communication plan in place with a clear procedure to follow. Ensure your whole team understands this procedure. You could even have it printed and laminated for everyone to carry. We decided to have a UK-based team mate to help with these procedures, contacting our insurance company and coordinating with the mountain rescue service if required. Check your insurance company’s requirements if there is an issue.

Now tell the World

Finally, don’t forget to shout about your exploits to anyone and everyone that will hear about them. Set up a social media presence for the team and get people excited about what you are doing. Normalise women going to remote places and doing awesome stuff.

I realise that writing about this in a linear style looks like it is simply step-by-step, but very often everything overlapped. This expedition was a steep learning curve for me: I realised how difficult it can be to manage a team. I also feel a huge amount of pressure to bring everyone back safely. The weight of things hangs heavy sometimes, so prepare for a few sleepless nights.

You can follow our expedition on Facebook and Instagram and if you have any questions (about planning, funding, logistics and everything in between) then I will do my very best to answer them.

Jennifer Roberts worked as a Marketing Manager for ten years before having a ‘lightbulb moment’ – selling her house, buying a van and moving to the mountains. She retrained as an outdoor instructor and that serendipitous career change has taken her to many corners of the world. Jen is now a qualified International Mountain Leader and has also worked as an Expedition Leader and Glacier Guide. She is based in sunny south Manchester (which might explain why she likes to travel).

You can find Jen on Instagram @jensbigadventures and the Monstrous Regiment expedition on Facebook and Instagram.

Want more like this? Subscribe to Intrepid Magazine

Become a free subscriber to get weekly articles like this. Become a paid member to join a community of female adventurers and supporters - who want to go on crazy adventures like you!

Subscribe now

Membership gets you:

• Access to our private members’ space

• Online Library of 1000+ pages of adventure reading

• Gear testing (+ keep the kit), discounts and other opportunities

• Events and expeditions!

Have you always dreamt of writing a book? It’s a scary, exciting and compelling dream isn’t it?

Living the Author’s Dream

On 2nd June 2022, my first book Stand Up Paddleboarding in Great Britain: Beautiful Places to Paddleboard in England, Scotland and Wales was launched with award winning publisher, Vertebrate Publishing. Thanks to pre-orders it flew off into the world as a bestseller in canoeing and kayaking - we don’t have our own paddleboarding category just yet! 

There have been wonderful reviews and feedback from new and experienced paddleboarders, SUP authors, experts and instructors. I’ve been in the press, on TV, radio and podcasts. We had cake at my book launch at The Grove Bookshop in Ilkley and I travelled to Leeds for an evening with the Canal and River Trust. My first book festival in Lowdham was such a thrill - as was speaking at The Yes Tribe’s Yestival this year.

Writing and launching SUP Great Britain has been an exciting, terrifying and exhausting rollercoaster of emotions that I simply did not anticipate. Brutiful – beautiful and brutal, as the author Glennon Doyle says. 

Since then, I’ve been asked how I was commissioned to write a book by such a prestigious adventure and outdoors publisher. I thought it might be helpful to share some of the behind-the-scenes steps, in the hope it will encourage you to share your work with the world. 

Knowing Your Why

I wrote my proposal for Stand Up Paddleboarding in Great Britain in the summer of 2020. I’d noticed a huge explosion in paddleboarding during the pandemic and yet that there were very few SUP-specific UK-based books, never mind guidebooks. I felt we deserved more.

Personally, paddleboarding has changed my life, bringing so much joy, hope and adventure. I wanted others to experience that too. 

Having very much enjoyed the personal storytelling in Suzanna Cruikshank’s Swimming Wild in the Lake District, my vision was to interweave stories of beautiful places and paddleboarding adventures, environmental thoughtfulness and the kindness of the SUP community. My goal was for the reader to feel they were on the journey with us experiencing the wonder together and to be inspired to go there themselves, armed with the practical and safety information they would need to know in advance. 

This vision became my ‘why’ and I am eternally grateful that my editor at Vertebrate, Kirsty, was willing to take a leap of faith and back it. 

How To Write a Successful Book Proposal

I don’t have an agent, but I knew that Vertebrate were one of the few publishers that accepted pitches directly. My proposal was detailed with a focus on:

1. the inspiring, informative, community and environmental elements

2. the quality of my writing, research and photography and

3. a keen eye to the commercial too.

Publishers are businesses and however much they love your adventures, if there isn’t a market to buy the book, they may be hard pressed to commission you. I noted the market, the growth of SUP, other books in the genre and who I believed my audience would be. 

I also recognised that as a first time author my efforts in promoting SUP Great Britain would be important. I included my social media activity, website, contacts and networks and my commitment to sharing, perhaps even selling, the book myself. As Brene Brown said on Elizabeth Day’s podcast How To Fail, when talking about her early writing career: “If you’re not going to toot your own horn, then don’t join the band.” I had to be prepared to toot!

Embarrassing Bravery

I recalled a quote from a character in the film We Bought a Zoo:

“You know, sometimes all you need is twenty seconds of insane courage. Just literally twenty seconds of just embarrassing bravery. And I promise you, something great will come of it.” 

Having pitched a very different book concept to other publishers a couple of years before, I knew that there was the very real possibility of rejection. However, all I needed was twenty seconds of embarrassing bravery to press ‘send’. I felt sick as I did it, but I knew that if I didn’t, I would always regret not trying. Life is short and precious and can change in an instant. If you have an inkling of a dream, I believe you should pursue it.

Writing a Travel Book When You Can’t Travel! 

The book was commissioned in early autumn 2020 with a year until delivery. I hoped that the new year would bring an opportunity to travel. However, as January 2021 arrived we went into lockdown three in England, with specific restrictions in Wales and Scotland. 

Whilst I couldn’t physically travel, I could read, research and talk to paddlers! I was really keen to show a wide variety of bodies of water – canals, rivers, the coast, salt marshes, lakes, lochs, harbours, estuaries and docks. I wanted to show the beauty of SUP in the city and rural idylls, plus routes that could be reached by public transport as well as by car. I bought a huge map, lay it on my kitchen floor and placed stickers of my initial ideas. I walked round and round checking, moving the dots, going back to my research. 

I asked for recommendations on social media and had conversations with paddleboarding guides and experts around the country about the routes they loved. I narrowed it down to 32 places spread around England, Scotland and Wales, with a couple of possibilities if things didn’t go to plan. I would have loved to have included more but word count and deadlines didn’t allow it. 

Growing Conversations

On Christmas Eve 2020 I launched my podcast The Joy of SUP: the Paddleboarding Sunshine Podcast, helping me feel connected to the SUP community whilst I lived alone on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales. In March 2021, the film Brave Enough: A Journey Home to Joy was released about my 2019 coast to coast SUP adventure. Frit Tam of Passion Fruit Pictures and I saw our film receive a very warm welcome and critical acclaim.

Sharing both the film and podcast became a lifeline to the outside world for me and, I understand, for many of our viewers and listeners. Community and friendship are such a huge part of paddleboarding. The response showed me that there was an audience for my vision and hope for the book.

Despite this, my self-belief was slipping as a result of living alone and working from home. Doubts began to creep in and I even considered writing to my editor to tell her the project was too much for me. 

Ready, Steady, Go!

With the roll out of the vaccine programme, I started to believe that I might finally be able to travel. Some people suggested that I could do so in lockdown three, as writing was essentially ‘my job’ now, but it simply didn’t feel right.  

Once I had had my first vaccination and the world began opening up in May 2021, I travelled to Liverpool and then to London for my first research trips. I will be honest, the pandemic had taken its toll on my confidence. I felt unsure being around people and travelling around the country seemed overwhelming at times. 

However, I decided it was time for 20 seconds of bravery, a deep breath and to take the next step and then the next. 

Writer on Board 

As summer drew on, I set off for Wales, Scotland and the South West. My little car was laden with my board Grace, a 12ft Bluefin SUP that had taken me coast to coast in 2019; Hope, my Bluefin 10ft 8ins backup board; a sleeping bag; my kit; notebooks and snacks. I tried to be as organised and time efficient as I could – practice from my days as a single Mum came in very handy!

However, researching a travel guide post-pandemic brought unexpected challenges. A staycation boom meant accommodation was really difficult to secure, especially in Devon and Cornwall. I was grateful that the Women’s Institute came to my rescue! Paddlers being ‘pinged’, getting Covid or understandably being eager to travel themselves added to the logistical juggling. High winds, flash floods and thunderstorms created their own challenges. The day before I was due to travel to the South West my car was deemed unsafe if I didn’t get a new clutch. I couldn’t delay, reached for my credit card and set off with some trepidation in a hire car for the very long journey ahead.

On the Road

I filled notebooks. I took photos of car park information, slipways and public toilets as reminders. Above all I asked questions, listened eagerly and looked with wonder and gratitude everywhere I went. I wanted to share that magic with my readers so they could feel it too.

Leave room for the serendipity was a lesson I learnt during my Coast to Coast. I decided to do the same with my research, saying yes to unexpected opportunities. I slept under the stars; saw dolphins, seals and huge jellyfish; went on a funicular for the first time; and experienced incredible sunsets, stunning rainbows and the whoosh of a saltmarsh adventure. I paddled with a Marine Ranger, RNLI and Coastguard volunteers and SUP superstars.

Paddlers opened their hearts and their homes with such generosity and kindness, sharing the vital local knowledge that was needed to make the trips safe, interesting and practical for others. 

Writing to Guidebook

There is only one way to write a book, particularly to a deadline, and that is simply to write. Sentence by sentence, chapter by chapter, wrangling with words until I felt I had done a place justice. I went back to my early drafts, tore them up and started again. It took time, long walks in the hills and gallons of tea to find my voice with confidence. Adding the extra information, filling in gaps and working to Vertebrate’s inhouse style took more time. They are nothing if not relentlessly accurate and sometimes my head was bursting. What was the height of the barrier at the car park by the Thames again? 

The Dream Becomes a Reality

When I saw a draft of the book for the first time with my photos and words together, I have to say I gasped at its beauty. Vertebrate had brought our adventures, photos and stories to life. It was a very proud moment when a couple of months later I gave my author copy to my Dad, to whom the book is dedicated. 

When a reader messaged to say she felt she was on the water with us, my heart burst. Likewise, when a lovely woman said she and her friends had visited one of the routes and loved it, I was thrilled. 

A dream I had held for 50 years had become a reality. More importantly, my hope that SUP Great Britain would bring joy and wonder to others was coming true too. 

What Have I Learned That I Hope Will Help You?

Here are seven pointers to help you write and publish your own adventure book:

1. Get very clear on why. Why do you want to write a book? What impact do you want to have on your readers? Why should a publisher invest in you? 

2. Be willing to face rejection. Don’t be disheartened. Keep believing in yourself, your work, your voice and try again. 

3. Just like an adventure, enjoy the journey, don’t simply focus on the destination. Your attitude will be reflected in your research and writing. 

4. Word by word, chapter by chapter. Keep on getting the work on the paper. On the days you want to and the days you don’t.

5. You don’t have to do it all by yourself: work with your editor to make it the best book it can be. Have some cheerleaders that you can turn to when things feel tough. 

6. Look after yourself: go for walks, eat nourishing food, have breaks, get some sleep, dip in the sea, read a book for fun, watch a film and see friends. If the task feels too much, talk to someone. 

7. Know that not everyone will love your work and that’s OK, your audience will. You may need to develop a slightly thicker skin than you are used to. For me that is worth it fore having the opportunity to share a message that could make a difference. The weight of not trying would have been too heavy to bear. 

Above all, hold onto your dream, keep focused on your vision and write the best proposal you can. Remind yourself you only need 20 seconds of embarrassing bravery to make something great happen. Take a deep breath and press ‘send’. Be proud of yourself for that first courageous step. I’ll be here cheering you. I’d love to hear how you get on. 

Jo Moseley is a single Mum of two grown-up sons living on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales. She calls herself a joy encourager, midlife adventurer and beach cleaner. In 2019, aged 54, Jo became the first woman to paddleboard coast to coast across the north of England picking up litter and raising money for the 2MinuteBeachClean charity and The Wave Project. A film about the adventure, Brave Enough - A Journey Home to Joy, has been screened at prestigious film festivals such as Kendal Mountain Film Festival and Sheffield Adventure Film Festival.

She is the host of the popular The Joy of SUP - the Paddleboarding Sunshine Podcast, sponsored by BluefinSUP. In June 2022, Jo released her first book with award winning adventure publishers Vertebrate Publishing called Stand Up Paddleboarding in Great Britain - Beautiful Places to Paddleboard in England, Scotland and Wales. A bestseller in its first weekend, it is her love letter to SUP, stunning places on our doorstep and the wonderful paddleboarding community, with a strong emphasis on safety and environmental responsibility.

You can find Jo on her website jomoseley.com or on social media: Twitter, Instagram, Facebook and LinkedIn. Or listen to her podcast on your favourite podcasting app!

Want more like this? Subscribe to Intrepid Magazine

Become a free subscriber to get weekly articles like this. Become a paid member to join a community of female adventurers and supporters - who want to go on crazy adventures like you!

Subscribe now

Membership gets you:

• Access to our private members’ space

• Online Library of 1000+ pages of adventure reading

• Gear testing (+ keep the kit), discounts and other opportunities

• Events and expeditions!

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not my favourite because it was in any way easy (it was not!) or because the scenery was epic (it was!). It’s my favourite so far because it has made me feel so empowered, reminded me of my own resilience and reaffirmed my faith in humanity. I’m aware that verges on the cliché but bear with me.

The Challenge

Land’s End to John O’ Groats, or End-to-end as it is also known, is one of those challenges I never thought I would try. I liked the idea of it but, and please believe me when I say this, I was never really that into cycling before. I had a bike, sure, and I’d attempted a few triathlons. But I’d only ever cycled 100 miles, in one go, once before. And I never figured I would do it solo, unsupported and without any serious training.

Let’s start with what I found hard. The 15%+ inclines in Cornwall were brutal and, at times, impossible to cycle (so much extra weight on the bike and the zero training). Then there was also my sticky, stinging, chafing and bruised nether regions that quickly became the focus of my attentions for the first few days. Naturally, the weather was another challenge: the intense wind and rain that I just had to pedal on through, followed by the chilly nights I spent in my tiny, one person tent in the middle of nowhere. And, as I write this, I’m still suffering with the intensely painful right side of my neck.

But those bits were what made it an adventure. Without those days, those moments, I would not have any appreciation for the good bits. Just like in life, if it was all plain sailing you wouldn’t  realise when you had it good. I worked hard on every hill, knowing full well that I could relish the downhills on the other side. And no hill is endless, although sometimes it felt like it, but I knew if I just kept peddling, it would end. So, the more I peddled, the more I realised that, whilst of course you need some base-line fitness to prevent injury, challenges like this are all in the mind. Your body, yes yours, can do so much more than you can even imagine. I am NOT a pro cyclist. I selected a route that was challenging but not impossible for me. I knew circa 1000 miles over 12 days was going to push me, but I also knew that I had no other task other than to keep going and not get injured.

The Why behind the Bicycle

I met others along the route on different schedules. One was a 19 year old man aiming to complete LEJOG in about 15 days for the British Heart Foundation, having had a cardiac arrest last year. I met another couple who were taking 23 days, but their aim was more to explore. Different people, different aims, relative levels of challenge.

Of course the other enjoyable element for me was that I am attempting all of this for what I believe to be a good cause: raising funds for the Veterans’ Foundation. At the same time, I also wanted to encourage others to go on their own adventures. These two motives provided me with a genuine sense of purpose every morning and, without a doubt, fuelled me throughout.

These goals also helped me to accept help when it was offered. No one likes to impose on friends unnecessarily, as humans we don’t like to feel indebted, but I was so grateful to receive the hot showers, occasional sofa and free food that was insisted upon me. And I can’t tell you how grateful I was for the occasional local guide and wind break when friends chose to join me for part of the journey. I was genuinely humbled that people would adjust schedules, take time off work, offer to wash my very smelly clothes and generally look after me. I feel incredibly lucky to be part of such a network.

Going it Alone

Despite all of that help and support, however, I still felt like I did this solo. I planned it alone, I cycled the majority of it alone and I made all critical decisions alone. What I hadn’t realised was how much confidence that grew in me. It wasn’t until about Day 7 when, yet again, another lady said to me, “are you doing this on your own?!” Then it sank in that yes, yes I was - and it hadn’t bothered me in the slightest. At no point had I felt lonely or lost or sad. At no point had I felt scared or questioned my judgement. Even when I was in the heart of the Yorkshire Dales battling dangerous headwinds. Or somewhere in the Scottish Borders, having not seen a soul for 6 hours. I hadn’t been worried. In fact on that 7th or 8th day I suddenly realised that I was, for the first time in a long, long time, enjoying my own company. The solitude was so peaceful. I was, putting it simply, content.

It had taken a week of sweat and chafe and hunger, muscle ache and sore knees, to realise that I was actually enjoying this. It felt like I had needed to break my body in order to free my mind. At that point, if I could do this alone then I could do anything. It felt amazing. (I do, however, still like people and I’m definitely not planning to suddenly become a hermit. The amount I talked and sang to myself is a good warning sign for that!). 

I was also struck on multiple occasions by how many good people are out there. I’m not talking about the people I know already (I already know you’re great!) but the people I met along the way. Campsites that waived the pitch fee, café owners that donated the cost of my lunch to the charity, the man that slid me a tenner and insisted I buy a drink for myself at the next town (I did!). The couple hosting the Ukrainian lady and her daughter, refugees from the current crisis. The Chilean man cycling his way around the world, eating surplus supermarket food to get by. The quirky local media outlets that took the time to meet me. The lovely people I chatted to at train stations and cafes who decided to donate afterwards. And then there are the people who got in touch via social media to offer support and advice. All of this was exceptionally motivating and humbling.

Exploring the road less travelled

There’s no official set route, but mine did differ slightly from the norm because I was keen to see friends and family where possible. Deep in the Dales I got some funny looks when I said I was doing LEJOG but, for that, I loved it more. It was amazing to see the changes in landscape, flora and fauna. From the hills of Cornwall, to the Somerset flats, beautiful Gloucester, the Dales, the edge of the Lakes, Scottish Borders and Highlands.

There are also strange things you notice, which you wouldn’t in any other circumstance. For instance, manure smells different depending on the county. It’s still obviously manure, but there are many, many flavours! Scottish gorse, too: turns out it smells like coconut - go figure! Once I’d been told that, I couldn’t stop smelling it. And wild garlic, I couldn’t get enough of the wild garlic.

Strangely, at no point did I feel the need to put on a podcast or listen to music. The route and the fact that I was solo meant I had enough to think about. Navigation, equipment management, sustainment… by the end it becomes second nature but that doesn’t mean you aren’t still thinking about it. It keeps you nicely distracted from the number of miles left to go each day.

The Last Hurdle

One thing I would say is that it doesn’t matter if it’s 60 miles or 100 miles you are cycling in one day, the last 20 miles always hurt. Which just proves to me that expectation management is everything. Your mind is the key. 

So as I cycled towards the famous finish I had my first internal tantrum. The last 2km felt so long, and having to battle a headwind at the end was just not fun. And yet, the closer I got the less I wanted to get there. My body was definitely ready for recovery but my mind could have kept going. That ferry to the Orkneys was strangely inviting. 

I’m not sure I’m suddenly going to go cycling bonkers, but I can see now how people end up cycling the world. It’s a simple and stress free kind of lifestyle - just you and the open road.

The Stats

• Total duration: 12 days

• Total distance: 975.7 miles

• Total climb: 53,110 feet

• Moving time: 86 hours 44 minutes 

• Punctures: 0 

• Cakes eaten: Many 

Kit List and Gear Advice

If you’re thinking of a similar trip yourself, here is some of what Jen took and what changes she would have made to her LEJOG kit list.

Jen’s Essentials

• Obviously inner tubes and puncture repair kit!

• Polos (for boredom and dodgy tummies)

• Mountain bike shoes (I destroyed my road cleats)

• Inflatable packable roll mat (offers so much warmth)

• A sign to tell everyone what you are doing (gets the conversations flowing)

• 1 pair of underpants (luxury!)

• SPF of some kind (for the wind burn mainly)

What not to bother with

• Chain lube (you can pick this up on route or ask for olive oil!)

• High energy snacks (not sustainable, questionable taste and you can buy food all the way along)

• Earphones (I carried mine the whole way and never used them)

• Jet boil/ cooking appliance (unless you are going super cheap - quite a few friends fed me which helped keep costs low)

Trip specific purchases

• Specialized all condition armadillo tyres 

• Backpacker Pro 1 person tent from Outdoor Gear 

• Lightweight trail roll mat from Outdoor Leisure 

• LifeLine adventure handlebar bag

Major Jen Price is currently transition out of the British Army and into civilian life after 10 years of service. She is passionate about the supporting Veterans of the British Armed Forces and inspiring others to go on adventures.

If you’d like to support her endeavours you can donate to her Just Giving page here. Or if you would just like to find out more, check out her other challenges this year via her website: jennevolve.co.uk You can also find her on social media: Instagram, LinkedIn and TikTok.

Want more like this? Subscribe to Intrepid Magazine

Become a free subscriber to get weekly articles like this. Become a paid member to join a community of female adventurers and supporters - who want to go on crazy adventures like you!

Join Now

Membership gets you:

• Access to our private members’ space

• Online Library of 1000+ pages of adventure reading

• Gear testing (+ keep the kit), discounts and other opportunities

• Events and expeditions!

I always have a to-do list on the go. It’s a list of mundane and ordinary things that need completing: reply to emails, call so and so, tidy house... But like many outdoorsy folk I have an adventure list too. Well, actually, it’s a book. A private space where I write down:

• the names of hikes and bike rides I’d like to explore

• countries I'd love to visit and why

• skills I’d like to learn

• experiences I’d like to live out.

In a way it is a bucket list, but I call it my Life List - because at times it is literally the only thing that keeps me moving forwards through the crushing pain of mental ill health and chronic pain.

Where it all began

Every so often an idea pops into my mind for an expedition that’s of a nature I have never considered before. Generally, the urge to get out and tackle this calling is then impossible to ignore until I am literally in the experience - and that was what happened during a humble morning walk from our home in the hills of Exmoor. 

I was going to cycle from John O’Groats to Land’s End (JOGLE) via the highest point of every national park in the country. That’s 15 national parks, 2000 miles and 55 days. At this point the longest ride I had ever undertaken was 32 miles, on the flat, a few years back. I had no cycling gear. And my Dawes Horizon bike was rusting and neglected in the shed. I didn't even have a proper helmet. Oops.

The thing is, I was struggling. As a country we had been beaten back by lockdown after lockdown. I had lost my job as a personal trainer and spent 6 months living homeless with my partner in 2020. I was constantly having to adapt in order to keep my own company afloat, as I could access no support from the government. I was in pain too, with an ongoing mysterious issue in my fascia and spine that no professional I had seen knew what to do with. Chronic migraines incapacitated me. And my mental space, which had only ever been turbulent at best, was threatening to wipe me off the face of the planet. 

It was definitely time for an adventure.

Abbie Bikes Britain begins

Fast forwards through a whirlwind three months of planning, training rides, phone calls, emails, discussions, tears, elation, shopping and more to the end of August 2021. My partner Anna and I stood on the starting line, ready to set off on our challenge: Abbie Bikes Britain. It was a surreal feeling, standing at the top of mainland Britain knowing that before us lay a zig-zagging route, crammed with memories to be had and places to see. I was cycling, Anna was driving and we’d take in each national park, stopping to hike up the highest peaks together.

The first few days in Scotland flew by. We had an encounter with the police, dealt with blistering heat and I struggled to get food down due to an overarching anxiety about the project. But before we knew it we had our first walk day to Ben Macdui, the highest point of the Cairngorms National Park. We enjoyed a fantastic temperature inversion, complete with brocken spectre, and the group walking with us were great company. 

The next day came around and I was back on my bike, Blue. Anna was driving the support van and we would meet up once or twice throughout the day. My mileage averaged between 45-60 miles. My shortest days on the trip were about 30 miles and the longest 90. Thankfully by the time we reached Ben More, in the Loch Lomond and Trossachs National Park, I was keeping food down and feeling more well in myself. 

It amazed us how quickly time was passing, and yet each day felt full to the brim with stories and tales. We always collapsed into bed feeling satisfyingly exhausted. By Day 8 we were crossing the border into England, waving a heart-felt goodbye to Scotland which had treated us very well! Funnily enough, as soon as we hit the ‘Welcome to England’ sign, the mist came in and it started raining. 

This was really where we faced our first challenges on the expedition. Whilst the logistics of the project itself were going smoothly, we found ourselves dealing with unexpected emotionally draining situations, including business threats and family bereavement. Very quickly, we had to dig into our own ways of coping with the drama that unfolded, whilst at the same time keeping up with the demands of Abbie Bikes Britain and creating space for each other.

By now we were settled into as much of a routine as we could forge and yet the highs and lows were relentless - both in a literal sense and metaphorically, emotionally speaking. It was tough work and yet at the same time I felt truly grateful to be undertaking such an incredible experience. It felt amazing to move around the country by body power alone. Perhaps my greatest achievement was cycling up Honister Pass, one of the steepest roads in the country. It had been a daunting shadow ahead of me, during the stretch in the north, but reaching the top after a 65 mile day was a hugely rewarding experience personally. 

You might also like: “It’s Easier than Switzerland” - Fear, adventures and bicycles. Plus interview with Laura Moss and the 2021 Cycle Touring Festival

The walks within each National Park really helped to break up the monotony of life on the bike. We opened up each hike to the public, to come and join us, and we met some fun and fascinating individuals. It was these events that kept us going and the sense of community that we built around the expedition gave us strength to face the hard times. 

Reaching breaking point

From one park to another: the Dales and the North York Moors, then down to the Broads where we ran a boat and boot day. Back up to the Peak District where we ran out of petrol and had to sleep on a petrol station forecourt. We jumped out of a plane during an unplanned skydiving experience, and then made our way across to Wales for Snowdonia, Pembrokeshire and the Brecons. 

As is obvious in our three part film series of our expedition, it was in Wales that we hit breaking point. We faced difficulties in the team and our personal troubles absorbed our every waking moment. It probably didn't help that the weather took a turn for the worst too, leaving me cycling in 65 mph winds and horizontal rain. 

Thankfully we were stronger than the challenges that threatened to end things. Anna and I stayed true in our communication and were determined to not let anything get in the way of us completing what we set out to do. We dug in deep, leaned in to our courage and held on to hope. We sought to laugh every day no matter what and encourage each other 100%. We had some pretty major fallings out; there were tears and plenty of heartache. But love wins every time and we knew that this was all superficial expression of our exhaustion, and the anger we felt towards the personal circumstances that had forced their way into our private space. Deep down we were solid and we knew it. 

Until the sun came out again…

Back to England and the sun came out again. It was lovely exploring a new part of the country. Neither of us had been to the New Forest before and the group walk we ran there was one of our joint highlights. Good vibes. Sunshine. Beautiful landscapes. Then on to the South Downs, land of gently undulating fields of green and red kites flying high above. 

With Land’s End drawing closer every day, the energy was electric at times. Our final two national parks came and went in the flurry of wind and rain: Dunkery Beacon in Exmoor and High Willhays on Dartmoor. Not that we could really see the tops for the cloud! 

Then it was on to Cornwall, the final county of the ride. We could really feel the change in seasons now. It was early October and the leaves were showing hints of orange and red, and the air was cooler against our skin. We woke each morning to a fine layer of frost on the ground and puddles lined the roads as I splashed by on Blue. 

JOGLE is a bit of an illusion in a sense. The true northernmost point of mainland Britain is Dunnet Head and the southernmost is Lizard Point. As such, as well as hitting the mandatory JOGLE start and end, we also ticked off the official north and south points too. They were too close to ignore!

The End in Sight

Reaching Lizard Point, Anna and I broke down into tears. For us, this was our finish. The place we had only dreamed of reaching thus far - and now here we were, standing on this windswept and exposed piece of earth, looking out over the North Atlantic Ocean. We hugged tightly, lost for words yet totally connected and proud of each other’s commitment to the cause.

Twenty miles later we rode into Land’s End, Anna having dropped the van ahead of time to cycle across the finish line with me. It was a fitting end, hand in hand as our community welcomed us with open arms and a fantastic celebration. We had faced the storms together and made it out the other side.

We had set out to travel the country to create a national campaign - one that started meaningful conversations about the importance of getting outside into green spaces, for the benefit of mental and physical health, and what we can all do to protect them.

We wanted to not only see people access our nation's green spaces for their wellbeing, but to step up to playing an active role in conserving those places too. Why? Because in doing so we can help to increase feelings of happiness, wellbeing and life satisfaction for people of all ages - by getting involved in something bigger than ourselves and being kind.

The three films following our adventure are now available to watch for free on YouTube. Abbie Bikes Britain was never going to be a dead-end project, but rather a limb in the overall body that is Spend More Time In The WILD. Our mission has no end and we are tirelessly working to create positive change across the globe.

Abbie Barnes is an adventure filmmaker and presenter. She is the founder and director of Spend More Time In The WILD, an organisation that seeks to inspire and empower individuals to get outside for the benefit of mental and physical health. Abbie is perhaps best known for her flourishing YouTube Channel where she is building an archive of hiking videos, exploring trails around the world. She also runs WILD Walks across the UK each month, and is the host of the One Wild Life Podcast. 

To hear more from Abbie you can follow her on Facebook, Instagram or Patreon.

If you'd like to join her community or join in for a WILD Walk, take a look at the WILD Walks and Events page.

Want more like this? Subscribe to Intrepid Magazine

Become a free subscriber to get weekly articles like this. Become a paid member to join a community of female adventurers and supporters - who want to go on crazy adventures like you!

Subscribe now

Membership gets you:

• Access to our private members’ space

• Online Library of 1000+ pages of adventure reading

• Gear testing (+ keep the kit), discounts and other opportunities

• Events and expeditions!

In the past couple of years, I have spent seven and a half months walking the length of Morocco and the Sahara with my six camels and three Amazigh (Berber) guides – Brahim, Addi and BB. It was an intense exploration, filled with discovery of lost cities, dinosaur footprints and spaceships in the desert. It is the subject of my latest book, Walking with Nomads. Of course, the discoveries were high points but there were many days  when we were just walking in difficult conditions. For me, the joy of the journey was in the everyday routine  which kept us sane and moving forward as we crossed the desert and scaled the Atlas Mountains.

So, if you’ve ever wondered what it is like to do this kind of long expedition – look no further! This was our daily rhythm.

Desert Morning Routine

I wake up at 6 am to the sound of Brahim boiling the kettle to give the men hot water in their little sandcastle buckets to perform the wdou – Muslim ritual washing before prayers.  If I am quick enough, I can nip out for the loo before everyone else wakes up and if not, I have to cross my legs until the men go into the big tent for breakfast. Then I lie and listen to Brahim singing the prayers in his melodic voice and try to understand the Quranic verses. After prayer, he brings me my little bucket of hot water, “Peace be upon you, Zahra.”  Zahra is the Arabic name I have been given. I wash and dress in my tent, nicknamed Le Petit Fromage (LPF) because it looks like a triangle of cheese. Then I pack up all my bags and put them outside, so LPF is empty except for my sleeping mat. My breakfast is porridge with dried milk and sugar, alongside a mug of Nescafé.

By the time I’ve finished and washed up, Brahim has taken LPF down and the camels have been gathered into camp. When we have them, it is a breakfast of oats for them too. “You eat camel food, Zahra,” Addi tells me. He spreads out a couple of tarpaulins and pours the oats in. When they see him taking out the tarpaulins, the camels gallop in, then couch themselves to eat - for all the world like they are round a dinner table.

We finish packing and saddle the boys up. Addi and BB do three (Callum, Alasdair and Sausage) and Brahim and I do three: Hunter, Hector Saghro and Hamish. Hamish is my favourite and my responsibility. First we smooth the hair on their backs, taking out any thorns or sticks from their humps and flanks. Then we put the saddle on. It is made of wood and cloth padding with an iron pommel. On top of that, we pile three rugs to protect the hump. 

We sling the green, woven saddle bags over the top and start loading in our baggage. Each camel has a specific set of belongings. Everything has to be carefully balanced, so it isn’t heavier on one side than the other. The last job is to tie the girth round the base of the camels’ necks and up on the pommel, then poke the belly one under their tummies with a stick and grab it on the other side. This secures the saddle and everything in place. Quite often, Brahim has to brace himself with his feet off the ground on Hamish’s side so he can get the ropes tight enough.

We get all the camels up – they  usually grumble a bit - and then tie on any last bits, like empty water bottles or the little camp stool. BB and I do a litter scout and either put it in the litter bag to take with us, or burn it if we can. Our aim was to leave no trace. 

Camel Trekking Days

It is 7.30. “In the Name of God,” says Brahim and we set off. Camels walk fast – at around 5km per hour and we don’t stop much. Once the camels are loaded, you don’t want to tire them needlessly by keeping them waiting with heavy backs. Usually we do 25km and walk for around 5 hours.

11 am is always a highlight of the day as we stop for a snack, in the shade. We try to find flat stones to sit on. “Zahra needs the biggest one because she is fat,” is always accompanied by sniggers. We have an orange and a snack pack of chocolate biscuits, maybe with peanuts and figs. The camels love it too because they adore orange peel. I hoard mine carefully and divide it exactly. Addi tries to steal it and always gives far too much to Callum, who he loves.

We will almost always be over half of our allotted distance when we stop, so starting again we know we are on the home straight. In spite of that, the last half hour (sometimes hour) was always half an hour too long. Brahim called half past twelve my ‘red line’ because that was usually my tipping point. When we had been going for around four and a half to five hours, we start to look out for a bivouac spot. This is one of the banes of my life. Inevitably, we will have passed the ideal bivouac 20 minutes ago and are now looking out on a barren wilderness and the prospect of having to walk further. Addi is a demon for this if he gets too far ahead looking vainly for a paradisiacal camping spot. 

You might think that in the midst of thousands of kilometres of wilderness, one bivouac would be much like another. But in fact there is lots to be taken into consideration. Ideally, we wanted:

• a water source both for humans and animals

• grazing for the camels

• shade

• flat ground, not in a river bed

• the right kind of ground for the tent pegs – not too hard and not too soft

• somewhere suitable to couch the camels

… and, at some parts of our trip, somewhere suitable to tie the camels. In addition, I always liked a nice view – décor ishwa, as Addi put it. 

Spot reached and agreed, the men circle and couch the camels. It is always a mad dash scramble to get the loads off the camels’ backs. I race to get all of Hamish’s stuff off and beat Brahim, who is doing Hunter. The hardest part is undoing the knots in the ropes, which have to be toughly tight for security, and I am always nicking my fingers. Baggage and saddles off, we hobble the boys and let them off to roam and graze.

Time to put up the tents – again it is a race, with me and Brahim doing LPF versus Addi and BB doing the mess tent. On the one day that Brahim and I won, Addi sulked all the way until tea time.

Life at Camp

It is my responsibility to make sure that our solar lamps are all powered and I also help top up the teams’ mobiles. I always had at least two solar panels and integral ones for the lights. I charged into three power banks so we never ran out, even when the sun wasn’t strong. My iPhone was my camera and my communications tool so that was always charged fully. Then I used an iPad Pro for blogs and articles, so I liked that to always be at 50% or above. Power became my psychological loo roll. At home I always like to have lots of loo roll in the cupboard, now it was plenty of charge in my batteries.

Addi and Brahim go and fetch water (if there was any for camp) while BB and I prepare lunch. The very first thing BB does is get the tea on. We have a battered old metal tea pot and the tea making things are kept in a separate bag for quick access. If we are in a place with shade and not too much wind, we spread the camel rugs outside. But often in the Sahara the wind is far too strong, so we eat inside the mess tent. It is always baking hot. Lunch is fresh salad if we’ve been reprovisioned, with sardines and bread; or pasta with sardines if we have nothing fresh. We mop up our sardine oil with bread. A day after the bread is baked, it is still ok. But by day three, you have to bite carefully or risk a broken tooth. Hot, sweet tea comes at regular intervals in our little glasses.

After lunch, I do the dishes and the men get their little buckets of water and go off to wash and then pray. I  swap out of my day clothes - sports bra and M&S briefs, scarf and cap, Craghoppers trousers and Craghoppers long-sleeved shirt - for my camp clothes. My camp clothes are a different scarf, leggings and a long-sleeved robe with an ordinary bra (ooh the relief) and clean knickers, which I then wear for the next morning’s walk. I stash all my walking clothes in my lace pockets at the foot of LPF and, after I wash all the vital bits with soap and a travel flannel, I wash out my socks and knickers and hang them out to dry on the guy rope. It is amazing what you can do with just 2 mugs of water. When it is cold, I also wear a Craghoppers puffer jacket, socks and a wool djellaba (robe with hood) over the top.

Then I unpack and arrange all the things I need for camp: notebooks and pen, in a lace pocket at the side of the tent; mug, Kindle and headtorch in another. Afternoons are for note-making, which I try to take in as much detail as possible, recording conversations as well as what we have seen on the way. That way when I come to writing articles and the book, I have a true record. It is almost always a battle not to stretch out and have a siesta. The men always sleep. After prayers is their relaxing time. Brahim and Addi retire to their little castles of saddlebags and BB stretches out in the mess tent or under a tree. Brahim spends some of his time with his tiny travelling Quran. He has learnt the whole Quran off by heart and he has to constantly revise. “The words run away otherwise, Zahra.”

Relaxing into the Evening

Afternoon and early evening is taken up with looking after the camels and cooking. “Camels have the devil in them,” Brahim always says and it does seem like that. They always graze as far away from camp as possible, which means Addi and Brahim have far to walk to bring them back in. Meanwhile, BB starts cooking. Many is the tale of some poor camel guide, who woke up in the morning to find his camel had headed for home and was 50 kilometres away. 

Addi makes bread every three days or so, kneading out the dough in a big pink plastic basin and then cooking it in our gas-fired oven – sweltering if he had to do it in the mess tent. 

If I have energy left, I go off exploring or nobble BB to teach me more Tashlaheet (Berber) grammar, or try to find phone signal. Often, though, I just sit under a tree or in the shade of the tent and be. It is the ultimate luxury. At 5 o’clock it is time for tea and a chat. 

The sunset prayer is said and then we have dinner in the mess tent or outside under the stars with a fire. Dinner is soup with plenty of salt, bread and dates; followed by vegetable casserole with onions, carrots, potatoes and turnips - and lots of spices. When the vegetables run out, we have pasta.

After supper, we lie back on the rugs and tell stories and riddles and drink verbena – a herbal drink which promotes good digestion and sleep. This is one of the very best bits of every day. Good company and full bellies, with the stars above and our feet stretched out to the fire, is pretty unbeatable.

Alice Morrison is an Adventurer who specialises in the Middle East and Africa. She has crossed the whole of Morocco on foot with her six camels, cycled from Cairo to Cape Town and just hiked from north to south Jordan. She lives in the Atlas Mountains. Her latest book, Walking with Nomads came out on 17th March.

You can hear more from Alice (literally, she has a podcast) on alicemorrison.co.uk. Walking with Nomads is available on Amazon, Hive or in all good bookshops, online and off.

“Why do you need an all-ladies climbing event?” asked many in the Indian climbing community. “With such women oriented initiatives you are yourself creating a divide in genders. How is this helping bring more women?” Along with the men in the field, I too questioned the need of a women-specific climbing festival.

e dominance in the climbing field is relevant, even in 2021, all over the world. Because of it, I have always climbed with men - and many women would relate to this. Despite being nurtured by the men, I never felt the need for feminine energy. Male climbers have always respected and motivated me to push my limits. There were never those comparison games or ego clashes.

I wasn’t oblivious to the fact that there are fewer women in climbing and I wanted to do something. But, I didn’t reconcile that that equality comes by empowering women. And that powerful female role models can create a change. It was only after I attended Climb Like a Woman that the true realisation of women-empowerment was sowed in my life. 

Climb like a Woman (CLAW) is India’s women-focused climbing event that started in 2018. The idea behind this initiative is to reduce the gender gap in the climbing field, to introduce more women to the outdoor climbing scene and provide an equal space for them. It was founded by Gowri Varanashi, a climber with a decade of experience and an outdoor expert. She observed that ladies tended to straggle behind in the outdoors. Having dealt with her own share of struggles, she decided to build a secure platform for other women to overcome their barriers.

“In my early climbing days,” said Gowri, “I would be the only female among the male climbers. Although the men were supportive, I felt the need for more women. I knew I had to do something to get more women into adventure sports. Organizing an all-ladies gathering and educating them was the best solution.”

Other female climbers, Lekha Rathinam, Prerna Dangi, Vrinda Bhageria and Mel Batson, who also envisioned an equal adventure world, laid the foundation of CLAW with Varanashi - the five powerful pillars. The first two editions of the meetup (in 2018 and 2019) were held in Hampi, a tiny village in North Karnataka. Hampi is the most renowned bouldering destination in India, featured in Chris Sharma’s Pilgrimage movie.

Climb Like a Woman 2021

For the year after the pandemic lockdowns, 2021, the festival was held in the Himalayan village, Sethan (just 20 km away from Manali in Himachal Pradesh). Sethan is a rising Indian bouldering destination. And it was my chance to meet the encouraging lady-legends of the CLAW crew and feel empowered (along with the participants). 

Over the course of five days, we were taught the basics of climbing. There were enough practical sessions for us to grasp the skills. Finding holds on rocks, trusting footholds, spotting efficiently and taking safe falls were some of the topics the mentors focused on. We were also introduced to slacklining and nature meditation. Early morning yoga and late-night bonfires were the perks of being in a nature camp. 

Over the time, with endless chats, mutual empathy on “gender stereotypes” and profound admiration, we participants developed a bond that made the occasion affable. Dangi, an experienced climber who started her climbing career in the 2010s, said, “Climbing is a sport that makes you vulnerable. You feel delighted, scared, sad or angry while sending a route. And it is normal to be vulnerable, we shouldn’t be embarrassed about it.” She added that women are generally scared to show their weaknesses in front of others. “They fear judgement. In the all-ladies group, it is different. Women naturally bond over their struggles. There is a comfort.”

Going Beyond Rock Climbing

Climb Like a Woman is not just about boosting women in climbing; it is about creating independent women. By breaking the stereotypes around girls in sports, the organisers aim to instil confidence in the participants that will replicate in their personal life. “We women are really good at putting ourselves down,” said Gowri. “We stop ourselves by not trying new things or believing we are weak. I get this from a lot of the girls. All our false ideas are based on societal biases or our upbringing, but we have to overcome those notions.”

Every evening, in the group discussions, the mentors would gradually introduce the taboo conversations around femininity. With various perspectives around female qualms in the Indian society, everybody tries to find the causes of these reservations and the solutions to overcome them.

“Why do you think you are weak?” or “Why are we scared to try outdoor sports (or something new)?” Their questions forced us to probe our inner feelings. “I have seen beginner male climbers progress faster than me,” I thought to myself. “I still can’t do five pull-ups in a row after a year of climbing and boys do pull-ups in just one month. I haven’t shed a gramme and I see men losing weight instantly after training. Obviously we women are weak.”

Since the day we are born there are constant reminders about our fragility. “You shouldn’t travel alone.” “Why don’t you join singing classes instead of climbing?” And the typical: “Who will marry you if you roam like this in the outdoors?” These were the constant obligations put on me by my family. I had to prove my worth at every step and earn my freedom after rebellious fights.

Just like me, the other ladies at CLAW spoke about their personal journeys - where they were restricted and deemed as the ‘weaker sex’. “We try to tackle many prejudices,” said Gowri, “provide a secure space where the girls share their experiences and try to find answers to their doubts… One girl mentioned she was considered weak by male players in basketball. This stayed with her, hence she always underestimated her strength. But here (at CLAW) with the encouraging energy of sisterhood, she felt motivated.”

Sarena Beriwala, a fire flow artist and founder of IndieFlow, was a CLAW participant in 2019. She came back in 2021 as a volunteer, moved by the camaraderie and the life-changing influence it had on her. “I am scared of heights. I am scared of most things. I think CLAW was best for me to challenge myself. Everyone around me tells me I have come a long way since the event. Just being surrounded by so many strong women and watching them try hard has been instrumental.” Sarena has picked up highlining and climbing post the meetup.

Things are in Motion

I could relate to every story of the fellow ladies. Be it fear of judgement on wearing sleeveless clothes, body image concerns, family restrictions or societal pressure. Seeing these females boastfully overcome their struggles, I found new strength. In the coming days, I wore my first sleeveless tank top. I learnt to accept my fear of heights. My lesson was to not be apologetic of my vulnerabilities. The confidence germinated in me has made a better climber and an empowered woman. 

The event of 2021 was a breakthrough for me, when I saw two mother-daughter pairs as the attendees. One said, “Being a mother to two kids, I never really imagined I could climb. I don’t really listen to what people have to say about me travelling with my daughter to the mountains. This is such a great opportunity for her to witness sisterhood and learn from them.” 

In just three years of CLAW, there is an incredible rise in the number of women in the climbing scene all over India. A few have already tapped the high grades of 7b, some have stepped in climbing competitions and some are supporting other novice climbers in their region. Most importantly, all are consistently climbing. 

Having witnessed this progressive change and magnificent support of the proficient mentors and members, I am in awe of this all-women event. I can now relate with the vision of CLAW: the end goal of CLAW is to not need a ‘Climb Like A Woman’. To have a climbing community where everyone is a different body type, size and gender - and everyone is included. But until then, we need such events and many more women-empowerment movements!

Nutan Shinde-Pawar is a climber, hiker and freelance writer. She writes for outdoor companies like UKClimbing, ExplorersWeb, Rock and Ice, Gearjunkie and others. She also works as a Social Media Manager for major adventure companies and explorers. She is either climbing or writing all the time - each day living her outdoor dream.

You can find out more about Nutan on her website nutaneer.com

To find out more about CLAW, visit their website climblikeawoman.com

Want more like this? Subscribe to Intrepid Magazine

Become a free subscriber to get weekly articles like this. Become a paid member to join a community of female adventurers and supporters - who want to go on crazy adventures like you!

Subscribe now

Membership gets you:

• Access to our private members space

• Online Library of 1000+ pages of adventure reading

• Gear testing (+ keep the kit), discounts and other opportunities

• Events and expeditions!

P.S. Our submissions are open until 30th Jan for new articles!

I soon found myself having a go at the Lake District Classic Rock Round (climbing all 15 routes within 24 hours), with my friend Leo Houlding. Whilst we failed due to bad weather, I realised that I really liked charging around the mountain, doing loads of mileage on relatively easy climbs. The Classic Rock guidebook covers the whole of the UK (not just the Lakes), so very soon the idea to link up all of the 83 routes by bicycle was born.

It might seem like a crazy jump to go from failing on the Lakes round to trying to link-up the whole of the UK. But in reality they’re very different challenges. The Lakes round is like a climbing ultra-marathon, requiring a huge amount of effort in a short time. Whereas the UK link up is much more of an expedition. You’re doing far fewer climbs and miles per day, but having to keep that up for a long period of time. The Lakes round (in hindsight) needs proper training and preparation, but the UK version just needs you to keep chipping away…

A Very Laden Bicycle

Fast forward a year and I was in Penzance, straddling a touring bike that I could barely ride because it had so much added weight. My decision to carry all of my own climbing kit was one I regretted a few times during the first week, and day one on the Cornish hills was particularly hellish. Marc Langley, a professional adventure photographer, was joining me for the first part of the trip. Together we slowly made our way around the coast, ticking off the first few climbs I needed to complete.

The weather was kind to us and the golden granite sea cliffs were a joy to climb on, with easy route finding and solid rock. All was going well until we both began to struggle with our ultra heavy bikes. I had seriously underestimated how hard cycling with all the added kit was going to be. We spent a miserable few days playing catch up with the miles in order to make it to Ilfracome on time for our ferry to Lundy.

We made it - just. Fortunately Lundy island was a real highlight of the trip and the route I had to do there, the iconic Devil’s Slide, was brilliant in every way. I’m a big fan of slab climbing, so getting to pad up a 120 metre one, on a sunny day above the sea, was great!

Once we arrived back on the mainland we began our journey up the country towards the Avon Gorge. I had a little goal in my head of wanting to complete the whole Southern Leg of the tour within seven days - and we just about managed it, topping out on the final climb with only a couple of hours to spare. Just this first part of the journey had taken us from Cornwall, to Dartmoor, through the Mendips and up to Bristol. But there was still most of Britain left to go. It was a good start, but still just the beginning.

Wet Welsh Rock

Our next stop was Wales. Making it to the coastal town of Porthmadog was a good confidence boost. I was in familiar territory and the distance on the map from Cornwall suddenly looked quite significant. There was one climb to do at Tremadog, followed by a particularly arduous cycle to the top of Pen-y-Pass.

Unfortunately, the tone of the trip changed here as the weather broke and a solid week of heavy rain followed. What were once fun, easy routes became much more difficult and serious propositions with water running down them. My preferred style of soloing was seeming less and less justifiable as conditions deteriorated.

Despite this, I decided to keep going and had many a memorable experience up in the Welsh mountains. Climbing the routes on the East Face of Tryfan in a pocket of mist was one of these. So was the 300 metre excursion of a very damp Avalanche/Red Wall/Longland’s Continuation up on Lliwedd. I learnt a lot about what I could get away with on wet rock during that week - and that knowledge would prove to be very useful later on.

After Wales came the Peak District. A good weather forecast and short climbs meant that this leg was supposed to be a bit of a respite… but it was not to be. I managed to contract a particularly vicious sick bug on the day I arrived at the Roaches. Not being able to keep food down made soloing a little more interesting than it should have been. My lack of energy meant I couldn't pull up with my arms. But fortunately, grit routes tend to rely mostly on balance rather than strength and I got away with it.

Solo in the Lake District

The Lake District was next and here my partnership with Marc ended, as he had prior engagements. I decided that I could get everything done within two days, as the weather was back on my side, and enjoyed a brilliant 48 hours of running around the mountains climbing pitch after pitch.

I realised that my experiences in Wales had vastly increased my confidence in soloing. Climbs like Tophet Wall on Great Gable and Moss Ghyll Grooves on Scafell are high and exposed and, despite not being hugely difficult physically, are still intimidating without a rope. But I felt totally calm on them and finished off the Lakes round on a personal favourite of mine: Little Chamonix. From here I started my journey up to Scotland and the real adventure began…

I had to hop on another ferry to reach the Isle of Arran. It was a place I had never been to and, despite it’s relatively low position in the British Isles, reminded me a lot of the highlands of Scotland. The enormous granite sweep of Sou’Wester Slabs was a joy to climb. The other route, Labyrinth, lived up to its name, providing an entertaining hour of weaving around inside chimneys and corner systems.

Over the next couple of weeks, I journeyed to Arrocher and enjoyed an unusually hot and sticky morning on The Cobbler, before heading further north into the depths of Glen Coe. Here I had a fight with The Chasm (a 450 metre gully with an in-situ waterfall); got lost inside the spooky walls of Bidean Nam Bian, whilst climbing the aptly named Crypt Route; and climbed up the North Face of Ben Nevis in a bubble of mist.

From here I crossed the country to reach the Cairngorms and my body began to ache as multiple, enormous walk-ins were added to the daily cycling miles. Fortunately, the climbing made up for this and I quickly fell in love with the big granite faces. Squareface, Eagle Ridge and Clean Sweep were all highlights. And suddenly, all I had left to do was make it over to Skye, for a few more climbs and the grand finale: the Cuillin Ridge.

The Finish Line

Arriving in Glenbrittle, I realised that my relatively good run of weather was over. The next few days were all forecast to be heavy rain. But, thankfully, my friend Neil Gresham had agreed to come up and join me for the last few routes. He turned what would have been a totally miserable day of rope soloing up on the Cioch into a still pretty miserable, but quite funny outing.

Finally (after nearly two months on the go), the famous ridge was all I had left to do. I decided to ignore the bad conditions one last time and go for it the very next day. I can’t say it was a particularly fun experience, but I was at least used to operating in bad weather. In my head I had imagined this victorious finishing scene, of running along the ridge in the sunlight with amazing views all around me. But the reality was I could barely see twenty feet in front of me. It wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind, but it certainly stuck to the theme of this trip: rain!

After a very long day of being soaked to the core, I finally made it down into Sligachan, where my Classic Rock expedition ended. I had climbed 83 routes (68 of which were solos) and cycled over 1,500 miles to get from Penzance to the Isle of Skye. I can’t say that the trip was always enjoyable, but suffering is a big part of these challenges. Without it they wouldn’t be so memorable.

The Classic Rock round was a great way to experience the crazy amount of variety that climbing in the UK has to offer - and a good reminder that you don’t necessarily have to travel overseas to have a proper adventure. Cycling and climbing is a combination that I will definitely explore again…

Anna Taylor is a rock climber based in the Lake District. Focusing primarily on trad climbing, she has made multiple ascents up to E8, and is also a frequent free-soloist. Anna joined Leo Houlding on a major expedition to Guyana in 2019, where they made the first free ascent of the prow of Mount Roraima, and in 2021 she was the first female to complete a human powered link-up of all the Classic Rock routes in the UK.

You can see more from Anna on Instagram @anna_taylor_98

Want more like this? Subscribe to Intrepid Magazine

Become a free subscriber to get weekly articles like this. Become a paid member to join a community of female adventurers and supporters (who want to go on crazy adventures like you).

Subscribe now

Membership gets you:

• Access to our private members space

• Online Library of 1000+ pages of adventure reading

• Gear testing (+ keep the kit), discounts and other opportunities

• Events, expeditions and meet ups!

6.30am: the alarm cut through the darkness. With a shudder of fear and excitement, I rolled out of bed, dressed and drove through the grey morning to meet a friend, as agreed, at the loch. Rain pattered on the windscreen – the first rain for months. 

That whole winter was cold. Metres of snow came down, lying on the mountains in a deep soft powder that delighted the skiers and snowboarders of the Cairngorms. Then it turned even colder. An Arctic blast came in and temperatures plummeted. Braemar recorded -23°C: the lowest temperature for 25 years. In Aviemore, cars wouldn’t start and one hardy local who tried to cycle to work had to abandon that scheme when he found, to his astonishment, the chain wouldn’t move. The grease had frozen. We skied and sledged, some folk wandered out across the frozen lochs, others built snowmen and had snowball fights, adults and children alike delighted to play in the winter wonderland. 

But then a warm front pushed in from the south-west and the deep freeze gave way. Steely clouds sat heavy over the strath, the snow began to melt and rivers thundered and flooded. Our enchanted winter landscape was passing: Narnia giving way to the sad scene at the end of The Snowman. 

Yet when I met up with my friend Cat, a very keen local skier, she did not seem that depressed by the abrupt change. In fact, on that grey February day, when everything was dripping and melting away, she was positively buzzing.

“I was at Loch Insh this morning,” she eventually revealed.

“Oh yes?”

“I went for a swim.”

“In the loch? Isn’t it frozen?”

“Yep! But someone had cut a hole in the ice.”

“Jesus. You’re nuts!”

Now, I am a keen swimmer. Give me a river, a loch or the sea and I will jump in, whatever the weather. I tend think of myself as quite hardy. But my swimming season tends to run from April to September. Outside of that window, the idea of getting in cold water sounds too unpleasant, even, frankly, unbearable. 

Yet here was Cat, who had not only been into the freezing water but was talking quite enthusiastically about it all. In fact, she was positively buzzing. And that was how it all started. 

“I want what she’s on.”

*

I pulled into the car-park beside Loch Vaa as the sky was starting to lighten, wondering whether Cat would even be here. The whole thing seemed like a crazy scheme dreamt up on the hill yesterday. But sure enough, there was another car and someone waving from the driver’s seat. 

“I’ve got an ice axe!” Cat said, brightly, as she got out, waving the tool in the half-light, before placing it into her kitbag. 

A fresh quake of what-the-hell-are-we-doing thoughts passed through me, which I ignored and dutifully picked up my own swimming bag and followed Cat to the water. 

Through the pine trees, the loch shone milky-white: it was covered with thick ice. Footprints and tracks showed where people had walked and skied across the frozen surface. At one edge, someone armed with ice axes and sledgehammers had cut a pool free. A thin glaze of ice had formed over this dark swimming hole. 

“Two days in a row, I must be mad!” Cat grimaced, laughing, as she set down her bag beneath a birch tree. 

“Or you have too many mad friends!” I added looking through the ice to the crystal clear water below. It looked oddly inviting. 

“Right, who’s going in first?”

We had decided to take it in turns since cold-water shock can cause panic, breathing and heart problems. If either of us had an issue, then the other person would be on hand, ready to respond to the problem from the dry land. We might be crazy, but we were approaching this winter madness with as much good sense as possible. 

Eyeing up the cold water, I reached a quick decision. 

“I’ll go first!” 

If I didn’t get in now I never would. 

Gloves, coat, jumper, boots, socks, trousers, thermals: off came all my lovely warm layers until I was standing, barefoot, on the freezing ground in just t-shirt and pants. A wetsuit seemed prudent but that, I was told, was cheating. As a concession, I kept my woolly hat on. Cat handed me the axe and I edged towards the hole in the ice. 

*

My feet entered the loch and screamed in pain. The water was unbearably, unbelievably cold. Each step was excruciating. 

And yet I kept going, walking further out, not thinking, focusing on the task at hand. Get into the water. Go for a swim. As I walked, I swirled the axe across the frozen pool, breaking through the thin surface, pushing the fragments to the side. 

At the far end, I stopped: chest deep in the burning icy water, taking deep, steadying breaths. I had watched Wim Hof for inspiration and preparation. From that cold-water lunatic, I had learnt that the breath was central. No gasping, no screaming: keep the breath calm, measured and steady. 

It worked. 

I placed the axe on the shelf beside me (the ice was a good foot thick and took the tool no problem). This was so surreal. I turned and eyed up the channel behind me. It was time. Don’t think – just do it. 

Leaning in, I gave my weight to the freezing water and took a few agonizing strokes. Laughing and gasping, I rolled over, kicking and splashing. I was inside a frozen loch at dawn. I was swimming in the most improbable situation I could ever imagine. This was utterly miraculous.

*

And then up – out! Now swearing profusely, feet and legs in agonising pain, I raced to my towel, skin so numb I couldn’t feel the contact. But soon my warm fleecy layers were back on, with a hot water bottle tucked in too, as Cat prepared for her dip. 

Walking out into the freezing water in her swimsuit, neoprene socks and gloves, there was no swearing, gasping or shouting. Cat went in like a professional. At the far end of the hole, she stopped, looking relaxed, leaning her arms on the ice shelf as though it was the edge of a regular swimming pool, watching the sunrise. 

*

Afterwards we ran around the loch, following the snowy mossy trails, leaping and breathing heavily, sucking in lungfuls of the cold air, running the heat back into frozen bodies. I leapt over logs and branches as the rain came in heavier, my coat and leggings sodden. But I kept going, circling the milky white frozen mass feeling that vital rush of strength and energy. 

That week, day after day, Cat and I returned to the frozen loch. Hooked, we were determined to make most of the ice before it went. It was so painful and yet there was something incredibly beautiful about swimming in that hole within the sea of ice. We had found the vital rush of crystal life. 

Anna Fleming is a climber and writer based in Scotland. A qualified Mountain Leader, she has also worked for the Cairngorms National Park Authority and completed a PhD with the University of Leeds. Her debut book, Time on Rock: A Climber's Route into the Mountains will be published with Canongate in January 2022.

You can see more from Anna on her blog thegranitesea.wordpress.com or Twitter @annamfleming

Photos courtesy of Anna Fleming.

Want more like this? Subscribe to Intrepid Magazine

Become a free subscriber to get weekly articles like this. Become a paid member to join a community of female adventurers and supporters.

Subscribe now

Membership gets you:

• Access to our private members space

• Online Library of 1000+ pages of adventure reading

• Gear testing (+ keep the kit), discounts and other opportunities

• Events and meet ups!

LAST FEW DAYS TO GET LIFETIME MEMBERSHIP! (Ends 1st Jan 2022)

Take one look at the Hérault in Agde and you wouldn’t have the river pegged for swim adventures, which is understandable. Technically, swimming in canals and rivers is forbidden in France. It is only allowed in rivers by way of exception and, in Agde, it is tolerated. Even if it weren’t for the legal angle, nobody ever jumps in the river Hérault in Agde. 

While the Hérault is a rushing crystal-clear stream in mountainous canyons near its source, it becomes a sediment-heavy river once through the coastal plain on its way to the sea. When it flows through Agde, the last urban stop before the Mediterranean, it’s a murky river shaped by a coastal lifestyle. Tourists and locals alike only ever engage with the river when traveling up and down its waters by boat, whether for leisure or for business.

It’s not the kind of river that people would think of swimming in and that’s perhaps why I jumped in with my friends.

I wanted to experience a river swim in my family’s ancestral region. More importantly, in a coastal area where swimming is the prerogative of private pools and beaches, I wanted to show that there are other options off the beaten path.

Swim Start: Agde Cathedral

On a hot summer’s day, I stood in the historic core of the city outside Agde’s 12th century Cathedral of Saint Stephen with three friends. It was mid-morning and all of us were wearing swimming costumes and flip-flops, lathering sunscreen on our bodies. Our plan was simple: swim down the river from the city of Agde until it meets the sea at the seaside resort of Grau d’Agde. In Occitan, the word grau means a canal giving access to the sea - and access we would need. Our 4.5 kilometre water journey would take us past the historic sights of the old city of Agde, past people’s back gardens and past the fishery, before swooshing us down the tidal part… if the tide agreed with us.

The plan was to get to Grau d’Agde for lunchtime, after a leisurely swim adventure that should last just over one and a half hours. Since we didn’t want to be late for l’apéritif, we got cracking and locked the car with our dry belongings inside. It was an odd feeling, walking barefoot in swim gear on the city pavement.

Sports watches to the ready, we walked down a boat ramp together, each of us holding a brightly-coloured tow-float, tied to our waists with a nylon belt. This would make us visible to boat traffic. We’d be swimming a portion of the river that featured medium to heavy boat traffic, so safety was top of mind.

By the river’s edge, I paused for a fleeting moment. This was it. Past the ramp, the next dry land would be lunch. There were areas where it would be impossible to get out.

Axel, who has swum this course alone before, warned us about underwater hazards - sharp objects, fishing gear, rusty pipes - anything that might have been thrown into the river. He also suggested that we keep to the left side of the river to avoid the swift middle’s swift current, the sea breeze and boat traffic. One by one, we gingerly slid into the waters of the River Hérault. 

On first contact, the water felt slightly cool, which sounds nuts when the river temperature was probably a balmy 18-20°C. That’s what you get for getting ready in the June sun. Leaving the stark silhouette of the basalt cathedral behind, we started our water journey down familiar, yet unfamiliar, sights.

My family hails from nearby Béziers and I’ve roamed this land since my childhood. From walks down the bourgeois quays in Agde to teenage holidays by the seaside in Cap d’Agde to visiting friends at La Tamarissière: I know this place. And yet then, in the water, I felt like I didn’t. How novel it was to get a glimpse of those basalt or limestone facades from the slightly lumpy river, tasting of sweet dirt. 

We were off. Let’s get this party started!

Meet you by the Bridge

After a quarter of a mile or so, we had left the city behind. We were swimming into a halfway zone, that’s not quite the countryside but not quite the coast. Neatly anchored along the river’s edge were dozens of boats - sailboats, motorboats and the odd rowboat. The leafy green canopy of the plane trees offered spots of shade on the tow path, glimpsed from time to time between two breaths. 

Triathlon champion Axel and his wetsuit friend took the lead, while I swam with Cindy (also a much more accomplished swimmer than I am). I was fine bringing up the rear. I may not be a fast swimmer, but I can stay the distance. The drill went like this: Cindy swam ahead, stopped to tread water and welcomed me with a joke. The two of us swam single file, always keeping an eye out for each other’s tow floats. Boat traffic had begun to pick up as the morning wore on. No time to dawdle, we swam steadily to our first rendez-vous point, under the freeway bridge. 

Many times I had driven across this bridge, yet it had never occurred to me to look down and appreciate the river for what it is: a liquid bridge, linking villages to cities to the sea. Cutting a fairly ugly concrete figure, the bridge arched over the river at the first mile-mark and we were glad to be reunited with the rest of our crew. In a few words, Axel told us what to expect swimming forwards, warning us of increasing boat traffic as we neared several campgrounds and the fishing harbour.    

Tourism and Fishing, two Local Industries

Half a mile later, I found Cindy chatting away with a couple of anglers near a campground. She had got tangled in their fishing line and struck up a conversation. They didn’t know what to think of us swimming in the river with their fish.

“Is it safe to swim in the river? Should you even be here?”

Laughs and Gallic shrugs ensued. Then a foul taste of raw sewage in our mouths also ensued - much to our surprise. Looks like the campground’s pipes have a direct connection with the river, which is positively revolting and forced us to do some heads up breaststroke until the taste had dissipated. 

Onward and downstream we swam. Soon we were level with La Tamarissière, an old fishing village known for its 19th century pine grove and relaxed lifestyle. Swim-wise, this meant that the fishing harbour was nearby. Right on cue in the distance, we got our first glimpses of cranes and boat docks. Shortly after, we had reached the fishing boats proper and wished we didn’t have to stick to the left bank. Now brackish, the Hérault tasted of discarded bycatch - and who knows what else still wriggling in those nets.

The harbour’s fishing vessels were also a lot more imposing than leisure crafts, making for dodgy swimming conditions at best. Steep sides, bulky hulls, crew busy doing their thing; I hoped that no boat decided to make a sudden movement. We could have easily been crushed or swept under. Not wanting to swim too close to the boats, with their ominous rumbling engines and propellers, we risked swimming out towards the middle. Constantly sighting for incoming boat traffic, we upped the pace. 

Rosé, Sun and Jet skis

Before we got to the sea, we still needed to swim by the riverside restaurants of Le Grau d’Agde and the dreaded jet ski rental shop. By now, the river Hérault was tidal and, instead of swooshing us out to sea, the tide was pushing us back. Add to that the sea breeze and an easterly current coming straight at us from Marseilles. Everything was nudging us to put a little more effort into our swim. Gradually, we swam past one, two and three open air restaurant terraces. The lunchtime crowd were already raising glasses of chilled rosé wine under the sun. 

One last landmark to go, right ahead: the Dreaded Jet Ski Rental Shop. Swimmers are usually weary of jet skis for good reason and despite our brightly-coloured tow floats, we couldn’t help but feel exposed. Too many jet skis have run over open water swimmers like us and not all of them survived. Added to that, swimmers are not exactly expected in this stretch of the river. We wanted to be extra careful. So, as soon as one of the jet skis departed, we sped by the floating deck, kicking hard to put some distance between them and us. Kicking, kicking some more and milling our arms around as hard as we could.

Done. We were through the jet ski danger zone. 

Or so we thought... Another jet ski zoomed by with a deafening noise.

A Double Lighthouse Finish

Heavens, that last stretch was a bit hairy but we’d done it. Now I could gaze on the silhouettes of the lighthouses of La Tamarissière and the Grau d’Agde, flanking one each side of the river. Green top starboard, red top port, the simple white towers greet boaters in and out of the Mediterranean.

It was a nice feeling, by the breakwater, bobbing up and down with the waves under clear blue skies. Now I could taste the concentrated sea salt in my mouth. All traces of the river’s journey had gone. The wine terroir had given way to a sunbathing and beach party paradise. 

Meanwhile, the flow was quite strong by the lighthouses and we couldn’t swim out of the boating channel into the sea. One by one, we lined up to exit the river onto the bank. My Garmin watch clocked in at 4.5 kilometres as we climbed onto the rocky boulders - leading us to the beach, a shower and, once dressed, a well-deserved apéritif. After all, what would a French wild swim be without an apéritif? 

Laure is an open water swimmer, park ranger, hiker, forager, and all round nature lover. Through her work, she aims to inspire people to try new active adventures outdoors while being gentle to the planet.

You can read more from Laure on her website: frogmom.com

(Including several more swimming adventures, that we loved!)

Want more like this? Subscribe to Intrepid Magazine

Become a free subscriber to get weekly articles like this. Become a paid member to join a community of female adventurers and supporters.

Subscribe now

Membership gets you:

• Access to our private members space

• Online Library of 1000+ pages of adventure reading

• Gear testing (+ keep the kit), discounts and other opportunities

• Events and meet ups!

THIS MONTH ONLY GET LIFETIME MEMBERSHIP! (Ends 1st Jan 2022)

On the 12th of December, Jen Cullom, Emily Woodason, Janette “JP” Potgieter and Erin Bastian, will row 3000 miles (4828 km) from La Gomera in the Canary Islands, to Antigua in the Caribbean, as the One Ocean crew. Part of the Talisker Whiskey Atlantic Challenge, known as the “world’s toughest row”, these adventurous women face a gruelling 40+ day race where rowers from all over the world compete to be the first across the ocean. 

Rowing 2 hours on, 2 hours off, 24 hours a day until they finish, the crew will face salt sores, exhaustion and near-constant exposure to the elements. With a bucket for a toilet, plenty of freeze-dried dinners and 8.5 metres of space, it isn't that surprising that more people have climbed Everest than rowed across an ocean. Yet the One Ocean crew pumped and prepped to undertake the adventure of a lifetime. 

I spoke with three of the crew - Emily, JP and Erin - about getting started in ocean rowing, dealing with mental hardship and the advantages of an all-women team. 

How did you get started?

Emily: It’s a bit of a strange one: none of us actually knew each other before we started. All of us wanted to row across the Atlantic, but no one we knew wanted to do it with us. I just happened to come across an online advert by Jen, our skipper, and she was looking to form a crew.

This was during the COVID lockdown so we met on Zoom. Eventually, after a lot of discussion, we met up in person and we got on great. From that point on we thought we’d like to do this as a four. So we put out an advert on social media saying we were looking for two other crew members and at that point, Erin and JP responded. 

What makes you want to row across an ocean? 

JP: I guess it’s doing what not a lot of people have done. A lot of people dream about it but they never get to do it. Then all of a sudden, you’ve got all of this ambition, this challenge, and three other crazy girls that would do it with you in the same boat. It's a recipe for success if you ask me.

Emily: Once you get out there in the middle of the ocean and you’re so far from land on either side and from the seabed below, you’re completely immersed in nature. That’s something you don’t get to see very often, especially as I live in London. It’s an extraordinary feeling and I just can’t wait to be there again.

New to Ocean Rowing?

Kate: Three of you weren’t rowers before signing up for the challenge. What was that like, not coming from a background in ocean rowing, to say “I’m just going to give this a go”?

Erin: I think I was a bit blasé since I do kayaking for my job. I was like, "it’s on the water, it’s in a small boat, how hard can it be?”. Then I got into a rowing boat and I’m tripping over the oars, and I’m not going anywhere. I didn’t have a clue, so I just jumped in the deep end, and then seeing the entire journey has been so satisfying.

Emily: I’ve always grown up doing water sports but I didn’t row because I’m pretty short - I’m 5’ 2”. All you hear about rowing is you need to be tall. But with ocean rowing, it seemed that the hardest part of the challenge wasn’t the row itself but more the mental capacity, the fundraising, and the sponsorship. They were all things that I’ve experienced before. I thought ok if I’ve got that, then learning to row would be the missing piece of the puzzle. 

JP:  I am very much the person who sees a challenge and I ask myself, can I do it? If I say yes, then I just want to do it. It doesn’t matter what you have to learn, everything requires a skill. You just find people like these guys and then it becomes easy. 

Was having an all-women team a deliberate decision?

Emily: Absolutely. Ocean rowing is still male-dominated. I think only about 20% of all people who row on oceans are female. We wanted to find a female crew to demonstrate that women are completely capable of doing this and we wanted to take that opportunity to inspire and push ourselves to see what we could achieve.

Do you think there are advantages to having an all-women team?

JP: I mean we can generalise, and it really depends on the individuals, but let's be honest here, when women stand together, nothing gets in their way. We are so determined, we are so supportive and we have this endurance built into us that with just a bit of guidance we can go a long way.

Erin: When I’m on the boat with the girls, I always feel like an equal and I find that pretty empowering. 

What is mental training like for something like this?

JP: You can get in your boat and row and you can prepare your body for it, but you can never really prepare your mind for it. It’s two hours on, two hours off, you don’t really rest, you eat when you should eat. But for the four of us, we focused on getting to know each other. It's a lot of honesty and it's a lot of sharing of emotions, but if we don’t do it now, it's going to come out on that ocean. The more we share now, the better our success will be.

Do you have a set number of miles or kilometres for each day, if you’re trying to compete?

Erin:  It completely depends on the conditions. If we’ve got the wind and the waves with us, we should be clocking five, six, maybe touching seven knots [8 mph/13 kmph] if we are surfing. If we get a headwind we just need to be crawling forward. It's more of a game of chess than it is, “every two hours we need to row this distance”. It's all about tactics over the long term.

How do you deal with pre-trip jitters?

Erin: I’m so nervous now that the boat has gone to La Gomera. Every day this week I’ve said to my boyfriend, “[gasps], I’m rowing across an ocean soon!”. The nerves are building up, but the hours that we spend rowing make me feel pretty confident in my body. It's been such a long journey to get to this point, I think once we hit the water all the nerves and stress are going to disappear. 

What do your mums think?

JP: My mum is just glad that I’ve finally told her what I’m doing next! There will be a race tracker for the entire trip, 24/7, so she’s very grateful that she’ll at least know where I am!

Emily: My mum took a bit of persuading to come round. At first, she thought it was dangerous so she was really worried. Then we had a day where we took a couple of our parents out on the boat for a row. They got to meet everyone and realise that actually, we are well prepared. That gave them a whole load of reassurance that we weren't just jumping in completely blind. Now they are coming out to the start and they’re super excited to be part of the journey as well. 

And you’re also raising money for charity?

Emily: Yes, the Sea Rangers Service - they’re a fantastic social enterprise. They work with navy veterans to train unemployed young people to become sea rangers. Then they undertake research at sea, supporting things like plastic reduction and increasing seagrass.

Part of our mission is to raise awareness of the importance of our ocean, and how it is vital for all life on earth. That’s a key part of our story that we want to tell. 

What is your advice for anyone interested in starting ocean rowing?

Erin:  When I decided to do it, my local rowing club was super friendly and they had a women’s evening that I could go to. I’d definitely say it's not as intimidating as the actual task makes it sound. 

JP: Start talking to people. I bet you before you know it, you’ll have signed up for either the Atlantic or the Pacific or who knows where the next row will be. Just be curious, ask questions.

You can donate to support the One Ocean Crew here and follow their journey on Instagram here.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity. All images provided by One Ocean Crew.

Kate is a freelance travel writer and photographer based in Sydney, Australia. When not at her desk, you’ll find her on the side of a mountain somewhere, chocolate bar in one hand, camera in the other.

You can see more from Kate on Instagram @slowly.north

Want more like this? Subscribe to Intrepid Magazine

Become a free subscriber to get weekly articles like this. Become a paid member to join a community of female adventurers and supporters.

Subscribe now

Membership gets you:

• Access to our private members space

• Online Library of 1000+ pages of adventure reading

• Gear testing (+ keep the kit), discounts and other opportunities

• Events and meet ups!

“Brazil?! BRAZIL?!” I woke up with another stomach-churning shot of adrenaline, verging on panic. Somewhere near my ear an alarm was going off.

A few inches below me I could hear the rush of water through the hull and, from the deck, the assorted rumbles, clanks and snippets of conversation that accompany two people at the oars. I’d been asleep for perhaps 90 minutes, curled in a ball in a space so closely packed with gear that it was impossible to stretch full length. Ahead of me was a two hour stint of rowing, around 3000km of ocean and an utterly unknown length of time before any of this would stop.

It was 2016, I was just off the southern coast of Portugal and, thanks to a convoluted series of events, found myself Skipper of a four person ocean rowing boat attempting to pioneer a new Atlantic crossing route to Brazil. Some might call it madness - but isn’t that defined as doing the same thing twice and expecting a different result? Oh. Wait a minute…

The first time

In 2013 I read a Facebook post seeking applicants for the final space in a crew of British women who were planning to row across the Pacific Ocean the following year. The ‘try outs’ were due to be held in Henley-on-Thames at the world-renowned Leander Rowing Club. It all sounded very exciting and I immediately assumed that tens, if not hundreds, of more qualified ocean rowing women would be applying. I consoled myself with the idea that it would be a fun weekend away regardless - and what did I have to lose?

As it happened the ‘interview’ was more a gathering in a pub garden, just outside of Henley. And there weren’t that many of us. And I was one of the few who’d actually rowed before. Somewhere between my ability to chuck a throw-line moderately accurately across a picnic table and getting on well with the Team Captain’s pet dog, I found myself selected and signing up to row the Pacific. I didn’t tell anyone for a while.

Fast forward a few months and we’d done some RYA training courses, acquired some sponsored socks and tea pots, lost another team member and had quite a few crisis meetings. We didn’t have a boat, or the sponsorship or money to get one. It was rapidly becoming clear that the dream didn’t quite match the reality. With the start date looming we briefly contemplated rowing as a pair rather than a four, but flying back to Dublin from a safety and first aid training weekend, I realised I had to make a decision. I didn’t feel that we could be ready in time and I knew that – with absolutely no judgment on the person – I simply wasn’t confident that my teammate would be able to keep me safe if something happened out there, a thousand miles from land. It was hard, but I made the call. “We either need to postpone a year to prepare more, or I’m out.” In the end, that expedition didn’t happen at all. 

Crossing the Pacific

The thing is, I’d told people I was going to row the Pacific by then and the thought of having to go back and say I wasn’t anymore was mortifyingly embarrassing. While fear of embarrassment may not be the best motivation to row an ocean, I think it is one of the driving factors that gets people to the start of Big Challenges. So I hurriedly looked for a way to save face [row across an ocean with absolutely anyone who would take me].

As we had planned to take part in the newly established Great Pacific Race as the first stage of our Pacific journey, that was the most obvious way to still get out there. I sent a message to the race organiser, Chris Martin. He mentioned that there was another team still looking to find a final member. No trips to Henley or selection tasks this time. I sat on the floor of my  rented flat in Dublin with a big glass of wine and had a Skype video call with Duncan, Matt and John – three men, all strangers to me and to each other, from different parts of the world, with a rented boat and the crazy shared dream of rowing an ocean. We were only a few months out from the start of the race, none of them seemed dangerously unhinged, the wine helped and I signed on.

Three Men in a Boat [and me]

Fast forward again. The ‘three men in a boat’ and I are now in a carpark in Monterey California frantically ripping solar panels off the roof of our boat. Not an ideal situation. We’d had a relatively* successful training stint off the coast of Florida. (*We only called the Coast Guard for advice once and only nearly got run-over by one cruise liner.) The boat’s owner had since towed it across the US to the race start line. Somewhere between Florida and California the already-quite-angry blinking LEDs on the solar chargers had become really-quite-unresponsive LEDs - the solar panels had been fried and without them we would have no power, no satellite navigation and rather more importantly no water maker. They needed to be replaced, and fast. 

Having already paid-per-seat to get into this crew (the simple option for joining an ocean row if you can scrape together the money but don’t have the time, or mad friends, to put a team together yourself), the constant trips to marine suppliers and daily Amazon orders were a worrying extra toll on bank balances all round. The ‘Limited Intelligence’, as our boat had been christened by her previous owners, was starting to look like she might live up to her name. We did the compulsory capsize test for the race and didn’t pass until more ballast water was added (to what was already the heaviest boat in the race as the only ‘classic design’ four). Even with weather delaying the race start date by several days, half the team were still buried face-first in one of the hatches below deck the night before, attempting to make the water-maker make water. 

Nonetheless, against what had started to seem like insurmountable odds, we did make it to the start line. Admittedly we rowed about 500m beyond it and then stopped again to re-pack the chaos on deck, but we’d made it onto the Pacific!

Rowing realities

What followed were some of the most astonishing and miserable days I’ve ever encountered. First, we did a tour of the bay, unintentionally, as we’d neatly mounted a magnetic satellite aerial behind our deck compass rendering it useless, AND managed to damage the GPS aerial cable while installing padding inside the cabin. Then, having at last figured out how to go in a straight-ish line out to sea, the weather picked up and we spent almost 48hrs on parachute anchor in the choppy, cargo-ship-infested, coastal waters over the continental shelf. We saw all sorts of amazing wildlife in those first few days - whales everywhere - and yet I don’t have a single photo other than a shaky few seconds of video of an orca that breached behind the boat on my 26th birthday. The weather, the twelve hours a day of rowing in relentless three hour shifts, the emergency-blanket-requiring cold at night and the discovery that I get terribly terribly seasick meant it was just too awful to even contemplate documenting. 

I’m a scientist and had been keen to ‘sell’ the expedition to friends, family and potential sponsors on the useful work we’d be doing on our ocean transect. We were supposed to be collecting data for a scientist working with NASA to ground-truth salinity measurements from a satellite – incredibly cool... until that equipment broke a few days in, and all attempts to fix it failed. Worse still, the water maker soon went the same way, and we really couldn’t get the foot steering to function either. A few hundred miles into a more than two thousand mile row, we were steering by rowing one-armed, spending an additional hour and a half a day each on deck making drinking water with a small emergency hand pump (in between bouts of vomiting), and had zero capacity to do anything more than survive. Other boats had turned back, one crew had even experienced a dramatic helicopter rescue in the stormy weather. We could have thrown in the towel, but somehow it never quite seemed an option. That fear of embarrassment at work again. 

Our progress remained impressively slow – the all women team Boatylicious nearly caught us up despite starting nine days later – and family back home nervously reported their attempts at re-booking flights to match our ever-changing arrival estimate, exacerbating stress levels onboard. As we inched mile by painful mile closer to Oahu (salt-blistered, skinny and sunburnt) the Pacific threw us one last curve ball… well, two. Two hurricanes due to make landfall in Hawaii in quick succession, exactly as we came into range of the cliffs and shoreline of the notorious Molokai Channel. 

Our early troubles with navigation and steering had never quite been put behind us and we were arriving on a course that was too far North to make the safety of Waikiki before the storm(s). The race organisers called us with an ultimatum:

“We’re able to award you a race finish at this point, and send the support boat to tow you into safe waters tomorrow, but you won’t get an official land-to-land crossing record. Or you can risk it and keep going. But if the weather gets bad we won’t be able to come out for you: your only rescue would be the coast guard and that would probably mean abandoning the boat. Your call.”

It wasn’t our boat. We wanted, desperately, to make land under our own steam. We also wanted, desperately, for it all to be over. We debated and voted. The crew was split, but Duncan the Skipper had the final call and the next morning, as we watched the sun come up over the first land we’d seen in 57 days, the support yacht arrived to tow us in. The relief and dismay were evenly matched – that one single moment we’d been dreaming about for nearly two months, finishing the damn race and stepping onto dry land, was suddenly an anti-climax. We’d rowed more than 2,200 nautical miles, but felt like we’d failed in the last 10.

So were there any highlights? Well yes. Plenty. Those are the memories that stick when looking back through rose-tinted retro-spectacles. The weather calmed down as we made it out over the deep ocean. The water was and astonishing sapphire blue, stunningly complemented by the gold and emerald flashes of mahi-mahi fish darting through the waves by day. The full Milky Way stretched out above us at night.

We swam in warm water kilometres deep, knowing that no other human, past or future, would ever swim at that exact point. We even managed to catch one fish (an epically poor success rate, given the number of attempts made). Flash fried in a Jet Boil, washed down with a bottle of red that John’s Uncle had stashed onboard, to the backdrop of a stunning Pacific sunset: it was the best meal of our collective lives.

Those moments are what make ocean rowing archetypal Type 2 Fun, and memories like that – with a healthy side-helping of “could’ve, should’ve, would’ve” regret – are dangerous…

I didn’t mean to go to sea [again]

Another fast forward. Over a year this time: I was still in Dublin struggling to finish my PhD when a email arrived from Chris Martin, the Pacific Race organiser.

“I’m advising a team called Row2Rio who are planning an Atlantic crossing,” he said. “They’re three men and one woman again. I think Melanie would appreciate a chat – can you reassure her that it’ll all be ok?”

I wasn’t sure I could tell her that it would all be ok, but I did my best to reassure her that I’d been perfectly happy in an otherwise all male team. No issue there. I sent all the general advice and links and contacts I could think of – everything I wished I’d known two years earlier, and wished them luck.

The idea of travelling from London to Rio by human power had been dreamt up by four guys in a pub watching the 2012 Olympics. As ideas go, it was mad, but also relatively straightforward and, four years out, relatively achievable. However, by 2015 the dream hadn’t progressed as fast as they’d hoped. When one team member had dropped out, they’d made a big effort to advertise for a replacement and picked Mel – a keen kayaker, long distance cyclist and challenge event organiser for a major charity – a great addition to the team. But soon after, as I got to know them, another team member dropped and a hoped-for title sponsorship deal fell through, and they still didn’t have a boat with less than a year to go before the Rio Olympics started. The question came: “Would you like to join the team and help make this happen?”

Rowing to Rio

The great thing about Once in a Lifetime Experiences is that if you do them twice they’re even better. Yes I woke up screaming “BRAZIL?!” for a few days off the coast of Portugal. Yes I was award-winningly seasick all the way to the Canaries. Yes we had some bad weather and snapped an oar, and had to dodge cruise ships at midnight when the auto-tiller decided to pack in. But crucially I had the opportunity to learn from the lessons of the Pacific.

Best of all, Melanie, Jake, Luke and I stepped off our own boat onto the sand of a small Brazilian fishing village, the first women and first team in history to row across the equator from mainland Europe to mainland South America entirely under our own steam. After a total of 111 days at sea on two oceans, I finally felt I’d finished. 

If you’re thinking about rowing an ocean yourself, here are a few tips from Susannah.

Lessons learnt

• Look beyond the glossy branding: if you’re thinking of joining a team make sure you ask questions and read between the lines, are the resources and commitment there to carry it through?

• Get a decent boat: second hand is fine, but inspect it carefully with your own eyes (and preferably someone else's too) first. Check the full inventory of technical and safety equipment - the extras add up. 

• Learn to fix your water maker (and all the equipment) before you leave: I went for lessons with Jim from Mactra Marine before the Atlantic crossing and it made a huge difference.

• Don’t get obsessed with chasing gear sponsors: Free teapots won’t get you across an ocean, although food does. Row2Rio were supported by Huel, 9bar, Top Herd jerky and Bounce energy balls.

• Put together a support team who will manage your communications and PR: your third Aunt will be desperate for news, but you might not have the energy to send it. Isla (@kettlegreenagency) did a great job for Row2Rio. 

• Be realistic about your expected timings: I didn’t ask anyone to come to Brazil to meet me, and taking away that pressure to arrive by a certain date helped me to stay a calmer and more objective Skipper.

• Take your seasickness tablets. (I didn’t learn this one… third time lucky?)

Susannah is a scientist with a taste for adventure. She is currently an Associate Lecturer at the Open University, a rowing coach in Cambridge and a youth expedition leader with the British Exploring Society. Her fondness for Type 2 Fun is an ongoing issue.

You can find more from Susannah at boatanist.com

Want more like this? Subscribe to Intrepid Magazine

Become a free subscriber to get weekly articles like this. Become a paid member to join a community of female adventurers and supporters.

Subscribe now

Membership gets you:

• Access to our private members space

• Online Library of 1000+ pages of adventure reading

• Gear testing (+ keep the kit), discounts and other opportunities

• Events and meet ups!

Who was the first woman to climb Kilimanjaro? Have you heard of her? Well, her name was Sheila Macdonald and I’d never heard of her either, until a few months ago. My then colleague, Stu Kenny, did an interview with Paula Williams, the curator of the Petticoats and Pinnacles exhibition at the National Library of Scotland. This led him to write an excellent piece about a Scottish mountaineer who didn’t quite make it into the exhibition: Sheila Macdonald.

When I proofread the article, I found Sheila fascinating. She was born in Australia in 1901 and was the daughter of Claude Macdonald, vice-president of the Alpine Club. She climbed in Scotland and the Alps; had summitted Mount Etna; and climbed Stromboli - an active volcano - rowing an open boat across a stormy sea to get away. She never set out to climb Kilimanjaro: she was meant to be visiting her cousin in Kenya. But she met a gentleman in an Alpine Club tie, Mr West, on the ship to Africa and joined his expedition instead.

Stu had found it challenging to uncover good and accurate information about the expedition, with a fair bit of misreporting in newspapers. But I wished that I could read a book about this awesome lady. So I started my own investigation, out of pure curiosity. On the way, I thought, “What about the Alpine Journals?” If her father was vice-president of the Alpine Club then surely someone would have mentioned her climbing Kilimanjaro. Even if women weren’t allowed to be members at the time.

A bit of a rummage and I found it: an expedition report written by Sheila Macdonald herself. The following extract is reproduced by the kind permission of the Alpine Club from their Alpine Journal archives.

KILIMANJARO IN 1927. By Miss SHEILA MACDONALD.

[The substance of this account is contained in a letter to Mr. Claude and Mrs. Macdonald, to whom we offer our best thanks.- Editor ‘A.J.’]

MOSHI, TANGANYIKA TERRITORY, August 2, 1927.

Mr W. C. West of the Alpine Club and I have climbed to the top of Kilimanjaro, and no woman has ever succeeded in getting there before. Kilimanjaro consists of two mountains - Kibo (19,710 ft) and Mawenzi (17,300 ft), separated by a 6-mile plateau. Mr. West and I and Major O. Lennox-Browne climbed Mawonzi first, choosing our route as we went, at least Mr. West did, and got to the highest point which had been reached by two German parties, both in 1912. We found their names and records in an old tin built into the cairn and added our names on the same piece of paper.

Our camp was at the foot of Mawenzi, but we could not stand the height for two nights running, and had to descend to 12,700 ft again before attacking Kibo. Mr. West and I were the only two to reach the top of Kibo, as Major Lennox-Browne, who suffered from the altitude, could go no further than three quarters of the way up. I never knew that mountain sickness and lack of oxygen could be so awful. And now I had better start from the beginning, as otherwise half the account will be left out.

The three of us joined together at Mombasa and came straight on here, branching off the main line at Voi. At Voi we got a ‘water train’ to Moshi, the only conveyance for nearly a week. It stopped every four miles to distribute water at wayside halts, and we travelled all day on the footboards - eight hours, and arrived at Moshi looking like Red Indians from the red dust. Here we stopped the night and just long enough next day to collect provisions, a cook and a personal boy. Then we travelled for two and a half hours on a Ford lorry with our camp equipment all about us, through scrub and up and down gullies-a most amazing road. I sat next to the native driver, and he was the best thing in chauffeurs I have ever seen-nothing abashed him, we took logs and ravines in our stride.

We got to Marangu in the evening and interviewed Mlanga, the Chief of the Wachagga, who was to provide us with fourteen porters to take our stuff to the highest hut on the mountain. He gave us eggs, milk and a leggy fowl, and I gave him a postcard of Kilimanjaro. He let us camp in front of his Council House. All our porters were rounded up by him, he sent out his ‘Royal Crier’, a picturesque gentleman in a blanket, who called the tribe together by making strange noises on a koodoo horn.

From Marangu we climbed up to Bismarck Hut through dense forests very much like those Knysna forests in South Africa, but more tropical - amazing creepers and lots of signs of elephant. Bismarck Hut suffered a lot during the fighting with Smuts, etc, but still offered the shelter of thick walls and a tin roof. It is high up on the mountain with a wide view of the plain, copper-coloured in the sun, while we were in shadow and mist in the middle of the cloud-belt which always encircles Kilimanjaro. This is one of the things that make the mountain so wonderful. It rises straight from the plain in one sheer mass, but the base of it is always separated from the top by this circle of mist and fleecy cloud, so that the great dome of smooth snow looks completely detached from the earth like a great moon hanging in heaven, especially at night when it looks too beautiful for description.

We left Bismarck Hut on July 27, and got above the cloud-belt into the sun again through a district of sweet-smelling shrubs, protea, giant heather and gladioli to Pieters Hut, where we turned in on very comfortable grass bunks. We saw plenty of elands standing as high as cattle. Major Lennox-Browne and I crawled towards a herd on our tummies with great success, while Mr. West (otherwise the ‘Skipper’) diverted their attention with his white helmet. We got near enough to take a photo when one of the porters dropped his load; it crashed down into the undergrowth and frightened the creatures away. We all sat outside the hut trying to spot animals with field-glasses. I found a big shaggy brown thing like a grizzly bear and distinctly saw it wag its tail, but in the morning it turned out to be an ant-hill.

The way from Pieters Hut to the foot of Mawenzi leads over rough country and crosses a corner of the plateau. We put up our tents near the foot of our proposed climb and spent a very cold night in them. In the morning, tea, ink and the Skipper's mixture of whisky and lime juice were all frozen ice. I was feeling giddy and headachey, Mr. West was violently sick and could not eat. The difficulty about Mawenzi is that there is such a mass of pinnacles and jagged ridges that the highest point is impossible to distinguish except from high up on Kibo. Several people have been up and thought themselves on the summit, discovering later that they had been on a minor peak.

It is the most lovely mountain for climbing; the difficult part was the first half before we got into the couloir that leads to the top. We used the rope for a few difficult steps leading up into the NW gully. This gully reaches almost to the top, broken by one sheer wall, where we had to climb out on to the righthand side of it again. There were excellent hand and footholds, mostly alternating with exhausting slopes of scree and loose rocks. At the top of the gully were three pinnacles, which seemed to us of equal height.

We found the cairn and records of the two German ascents on the most southerly and insignificant looking of the three pinnacles. This is Hans Meyer Spitze (17,300 ft). We rested here a few minutes and shuddered at the tremendous drops on the E side of the mountain. The summit is split into jagged pinnacles of every size, some of them only a few feet thick and piled to heights of 40 and 50 ft. From them precipices drop to sheer depths of thousands of feet.

We had meant to go straight from Mawenzi to Kibo, but decided that it was worth going down to Pieters Hut to have a good rest in between, especially as Mr. West was really suffering from the height, so we had a cup of Bovril each when we came down from Hans Meyer Spitze at 5 pm, and started back for Pieters Hut, getting there at 8 pm. Major Lennox-Browne was rather seedy, and suggested a day's rest, which we had and enjoyed, though I rather wanted to have a ‘go’ at Kibo while keyed up to the struggle.

So Friday was a slack day, and on Saturday, July 30, we climbed up to the plateau again and made for the foot of Kibo, where there is a cave (Hans Meyer's Höhle), where we meant to spend part of the night. The plateau was a horrid grind, slightly uphill all the way, drifting sand and the wind in our faces. When we got to the other side we discovered that the four porters we had chosen for the last lap to the cave did not know where it was, so we hunted about the rocks until I found a beauty, well sheltered, with a sandy ground- ‘The Sheila Cave’ this is to be called. We turned in while the boys built a large fire in the entrance.

Mr. West 's idea was to start the climb at midnight, so as to get to the top at sunrise, before the heat of the sun made the ascent too difficult in soft snow. However, we only had a lantern, which was quite inadequate; it went out five times before we decided to wait till daybreak and risk the soft snow at the top. We settled down in the scanty shelter of a rock and waited 3 hrs for light to come; then started the most awful climb for hours upon loose rocks, stones and sand; everything you put your foot on slipped back with you, and after 3 hrs’ hard climb we looked up and seemed to have made no progress.

At first we rested every hour, but at about 18,000 ft we dragged ourselves for about 20 ft at a time with stops between each bit to get our breath in working order. However much one gasped and panted, nothing seemed to get into one's lungs. I was rather ahead of the others, because I had found some firmer rock at about 800 ft from the crater's rim. When I found that the others were not following I cooeed several times, and finally Mr. West came round a mass of rocks - by himself! Major Lennox-Browne was completely finished, and could not go a step farther. I can't understand how Mr. West could keep going, when he had been sick and dizzy with nausea. I think he was feeling rather weak just here, though he didn't give in.

Well, up to this point I had been wondering several times how long I could stick it out, but I braced myself up and was comforted by feeling that I was not the weak one of the party. Mr. West and I had a good dose of whisky and lime juice out of our drinking bottle, pulled ourselves together, and went on. We reached the crater's edge at Johannes Notch, and bore round to the left, past Stella Point (reached by the Kingsley-Lathams last year) and on round the crater to Kaiser Wilhelm Spitze, the highest point, reached once before by Mr. West, in 1914, when he was the first Englishman to make the ascent.

We crawled to the summit foot by foot. I am not being dramatic, it really was like that. It was just in front of us, and I thought we should never get there. You can't imagine the relief of leaning up against the cairn and realizing that we were there. We inscribed our names in the pocket-book that is hidden in the cairn, and split a bottle of champagne carried all the way from Moshi for the occasion. We had poor Major Lennox-Browne's share as well, but unfortunately had to drink out of the bottle and got very little but fizziness - better than nothing, though.

Several women have reached the crater's rim, but very few people have been beyond - no women. The inside of the crater is amazing. Imagine a huge bowl of ice with hanging glaciers all round its inside walls and two great lakes of greeny-blue ice at the bottom of it, huge crevasses and seracs around its rim. I have never seen anything like it. The cold made it impossible to stay up there for long, so we took one or two photos and followed our tracks back to the crater's rim.

The way down was ridiculously easy; we just ‘glissaded’ down steep slopes of lava-dust and small stones, and it took us less than 2 hrs, though we took a wrong turning near the bottom and found ourselves in a narrow gully with a sheer cliff at our feet, dropping a good 80 ft to the plateau. So we retraced our steps again (more upward scrambling!), reached our cave just in time for a 20 minutes' rest and a cup of tea before starting on the 4 hrs' tramp to Pieters Hut again - anything for comfortable grass bunks and a good night's rest.

Darkness overcame us on the way, and we got lost and had to squat down where we were, with a huge fire lit as a signal to the boys at the hut. They found us at about 10 pm and led us to Pieters Hut with great torches of sweet-smelling shrub. There was much waving of branches to make the sparks fly. What a day! and the next morning we had to walk 25 miles to Marangu; dropping 8000 ft in 7 hrs.

So now it is done, and I would not have missed it for the world, though I cannot say I ever want to do Kibo again. Mawenzi I should like to do dozens of times. We have a lorry to take us and our luggage to Nairobi to-morrow, about 250 miles, as the train does not go until Saturday. You cannot imagine how splendid Mr. West has been on this expedition, always cheerful and most optimistic. The boys loved him, and he always managed to get things done, though none of them spoke a word of English, and all we could say in Swahili was ‘tea’, ‘coffee’, ‘water’ and ‘prepare food’.

The report is then followed by a commentary from Mr West, refuting claims that other women had summitted first. It seems there was quite some controversy at the time. It also contains a few black and white pictures of what Kilimanjaro used to look like. You can view it on the Alpine Journal Archive 1928 Vol 40.

Many thanks again to the Alpine Club for allowing us to share this story. It’s worth saying that women most definitely can join the Alpine Club nowadays! In fact, the club recently organised a ‘Women Rise Up’ meet, recreating some famous female first ascents. They are also partnering with the Pinnacle Club (the UK’s only national rock-climbing club for women) to run an exhibition called 'Women with Altitude' which will profile female alpinists from the last 100 years. This ties in with the Pinnacle Club's centenary and will run from November 2021 to January 2022.

Want more like this? Subscribe to Intrepid Magazine

Become a free subscriber to get weekly articles like this. Become a paid member to join a community of female adventurers and supporters.

Subscribe now

Membership gets you:

• Access to our private members space

• Online Library of 1000+ pages of adventure reading

• Gear testing (+ keep the kit), discounts and other opportunities

• Events and meet ups!

Last year, I had the pleasure of interviewing Laura Moss about cycle touring. Laura is living proof that you can have adventures alongside a full time job and otherwise “normal” life. She’s a solicitor for charities and social enterprises. Her adventures have included walking across a frozen lake in Siberia, hiking across the desert in Oman and many cycle tours, including cycling around the world.

Put two cyclists together and we obviously got talking about cycling around the world, which Laura refers to simply as “our big cycling trip”. The longest I’ve ever spent on a bicycle tour is 50 days (that’s my big trip!), so I was really curious about what changed when you went ultra long. After a few months cycle touring simply becomes a way of life. But do things get different after two years?

“I guess what surprised me the most was that the cycling itself was not a big part of the trip,” said Laura. “It was much more about the people we met… the cycling itself was almost secondary.” The bike was the vehicle, but the memories are all about people and places.

And then she shared this story with me: “I was terrified about crossing the Alps. I was thinking: I’ve never crossed a mountain range on my bike before. It’s going to be awful. I was getting really obsessed with it and I wasn’t sleeping because I was worrying about it.” But she got there and she did it without any drama.

“And that was actually one of the really big lessons: you can get through anything. No matter how hard something is, you’ll always get through it. Sit back and pedal and you’ll get through it.”

At the time, that story really struck me, because I’d experienced something so similar myself. On my big cycling trip, the general plan was just to cycle to Switzerland and back (from the UK). We didn’t have a structured itinerary or even a hard deadline. But for the entire outward journey, I had Switzerland looming in the distance.

I was terrified of arriving in Switzerland and yet every pedal stroke was taking me closer to the thing I was dreading. Why? Because I knew it had big hills - serious hill that went on forever, mountain passes that proper cyclists trained on. It was hard. It was going to be brutal. The closer I got the more the dread grew.

And it’s funny because it’s not like I’m afraid of hard work and effort. I was just scared of being put to the test, of meeting these hardest hills. Switzerland had turned into a monster unknown - as I imagine the Alps had for Laura. Yet really, I knew nothing about it at all except that other people said it was hard.

Then, eventually, we reached Switzerland… and I loved it. I say this comfortably five years after the fact, but I’m fairly certain I loved it at the time too. There is something strangely satisfying about pitting yourself against a hill in a slow siege. Getting in bottom gear and sitting there for hours, seeing who will break first - me or the hill - and knowing it will be neither. Plus with excessive uphill comes glorious long winding descents, through pine forest and alpine meadows (eventually). And let’s not forget the huge bags of Swiss wafer biscuits on the bottom shelf in the supermarket, to sweeten the deal.

I thought that I needed to be a certain sort of someone to tackle those big hills. I thought I had to be epic and hardcore - or even just fast and strong. But actually, being the hero is not really how most adventures take place. They take place by putting one foot in front of the other and finding a gear so low that you can pedal in it all day, if the hill makes you. It’s about small steps. Finding the smallest of steps and taking it again and again.

One of the things that puts people off adventures, or makes people put off their adventure into the distance future, is that fear of the unknown element. But dealing with situations out of your control is an integral part to adventure. Sure, you do the best you can to prepare in advance. But if there’s no surprise or uncertainty, if everything goes to plan, then you’ve accidentally gone on a package holiday.

Now, I’m not one for all that motivational “Life begins outside your comfort zone” stuff. Because yes, it does. But I’m in Mountain Rescue and I know it can quite easily go the other way too. However, there is an extreme power in knowing that, if you do go a little out of your comfort zone, you can deal with it. Not in a heroic or egotistical way, but with a quiet confidence - a trust in yourself. You don’t need to be the Fastest or Fittest or Best by whatever measurement anyone cares to make. But you’ll do it, slow and measured, one step at a time.

Laura Moss and her husband Tim host the Cycle Touring Festival every year. This year’s event is virtual and is running this week and next, from 12th - 21st February 2021. There are plenty of talks, workshops, discussion panels and even an Open Mic to sign up to. (I’ll be in Clare Cottet’s talk about cycling Pamir to Karakoram on Saturday.) For the full programme, check out cycletouringfestival.co.uk

Inspired by the increasing chatter about weight and bodies during the Covid-19 lockdown, Ruth Naughton-Doe reflects on her experience of recovering from an eating disorder and how she has learnt to maintain a healthy mind whilst having amazing adventures. In a society where people are encouraged to move their body primarily to change its shape and size, Ruth has learnt to focus on what her body can do and not how it looks...

As I run up the Sheffield streets, planning my weekend activities, I reflect that I never run alone. I always run with the spectre of my eating disorder, perched uneasily on my shoulder, poised, excited and eager to pitch in with unwanted commentary or advice. And yet, I am one of the lucky ones - I recovered.

I enter the small wood lined with magnificent ancient oak trees and glistening white birches, mud squelching underfoot from the recent summer rains. I think back to travelling last year: three months of hiking in the Himalayas and six months of cycle touring. I recognise that privilege. In this restricted era of global pandemic, I got to spend all that time roaming free, visiting different countries and being active every day. I am reminded of a time in my life where I thought I wouldn’t be able to exercise again.

In one of many attempts at recovery, success finally came because I stopped. I realised that I had to completely stop all physical activity for a while to allow myself time to heal and reflect on my relationship with moving my body. In 2013, I challenged myself to six months of total stillness. At the time, it is no exaggeration to say that this felt world-ending. My entire identity had been constructed around the physical activities that I participated in. I was Ruth the runner, Ruth the climber, Ruth who practised yoga, went to the gym and spent holidays hiking or cycling in the mountains. As I sat staring at the array of active wear sprawled across my bedroom floor - rucksacks, trainers, climbing shoes - punctuated by make-up, work clothes and ornaments, I started to question how could I exist without these things.

My entire identity had been constructed around the physical activities that I participated in.

Resting my body, denying myself the privilege of movement, I felt torn and confused, both feelings that persist despite my recovery. I knew I used exercise as a weapon against my body, to shape or sculpt it into sizes and forms it didn’t want to be, but I also knew that moving my body was an effective tool for emotional release and a huge part of enjoying adventures in the wilderness. Physical activity was both my torturer and rescuer and this battle was being played out in my flesh. My body could not be a battleground. I was not a battleground. Exercise needed to be a tool to improve my well-being, not a weapon.

Talking to my partner about my eating disorder, I realise now that the vast majority of people have experienced disordered eating for at least some of their life. The sad reality is that most people hate their bodies, abuse their bodies, diet, undergo surgery and force themselves to exercise or feel guilty about their bodies. Perhaps this is a by-product of our culture and media, or maybe a competition to ‘look good’ is hard wired into our biology. The difference between disordered eating and someone with an eating disorder is that the person with an eating disorder decides they hate themself and not just their body. And, they hate themself enough to dedicate their entire daily life to changing it.

My eating disorder started with an adventure. No wonder I was finding this confusing.

The first few months of forced rest was the biggest adventure of my life, but not my usual type such as cycling across Iceland, kayaking in Wales, or long distance hiking in New Zealand. This adventure was played out entirely in my mind. My moods fluctuated wildly, sometimes hourly, on a journey that rocked me through self-discovery, exhilaration and panic.

I remember the freedom of waking up on a Saturday morning and realising I had nowhere to be; I could just lie in bed and not do anything. No dragging my exhausted legs out for a run, I could just turn over and go back to sleep. I felt sorry for people out for a run, when I saw then jogging past the window, wiping sweat from their brows with pained expressions. Thank God that was no longer me.

And then, the panic would come. I felt lost. For such a long time, people had complimented me for my motivation. Oh, how they wish they could always be running like me. Wasn’t it great that I was cycling everywhere? Now I was Ruth that sat in her pyjamas and watched Bake Off, crying whilst eating cake for the first time in years. I was Ruth that caught the bus rather than walked and I was Ruth that didn’t do yoga.

Now I was Ruth that sat in her pyjamas and watched Bake Off, crying whilst eating cake for the first time in years. I was Ruth that caught the bus rather than walked and I was Ruth that didn’t do yoga.

The stillness brought forward an eruption of past trauma, self-loathing, shame, guilt, unworthiness, loss, grief, sadness - all those feelings I had been savagely suppressing for ten years as I distracted myself in a relentless pursuit for an ideal body, in a world where my perception of my ideal body changed as consistently as British summer weather. In the stillness, I was forced to deal with myself.

Whilst I grappled with recovery, my relationship with moving my body was chaotic, confusing and toxic. My whole adult life had been marked with an eating disorder and I had to question everything. Did I actually like running, or was that my eating disorder wanting to burn calories? Did I like climbing, or was that just a way to have muscular arms? Did I enjoy long distance hiking, or was that just a really good excuse to go on an enforced exercise and diet plan for a week?

Whenever I moved, there were so many voices that turned up to the party. Reassuringly to my eating disorder, when I looked around me, everyone was doing the same, to a degree. “I run so I can eat what I like” or “The best thing about long distance walking is the weight drops off”. It can get very complicated when trying to navigate the delicate balance of a healthy relationship with exercise in a disordered society.

As I start losing my breath, slowly jogging up the incline in a Sheffield forest, I reflect on where this all started. On a misguided 300 mile walk from Hull to London with my friend Sam in 2003, along major roads, wearing only my school shoes. I was 17, overweight by BMI and unfit, but this was not a problem to me at the time, my motivation was solely for adventure and adventures we had!

However, the walk also marked the beginning of my eating disorder. It was a journey where I learnt that I could walk to lose weight. I didn’t complete the walk, but Sam did, and when I returned home, instead of taking the bus, I started walking five miles to school every day. Pleased with the effects, I started walking the five miles back, too. My eating disorder started with an adventure. No wonder I was finding this confusing.

About six months into recovery, after allowing myself total rest, I started to experiment with exercise. If I couldn’t develop a healthy relationship with movement, then I would have to accept limits on my adventures. I tested myself with gentle yoga, horse riding and walking twenty minutes to and from work. I devoted energy to reflecting on, thinking and repairing my relationship with exercise.

I developed ways to decipher my brain and disentangle eating disorder thoughts from Ruth thoughts. Before going to a yoga class, or getting on a horse, I asked myself: "am I doing this because I want to, or am I doing this because I want to change the shape of my body?" I learnt to take inventories of how I was feeling. Did I feel rested? Did I feel strong? I approached fuelling my body in a different way; if I exercised, I needed more food. These strategies have helped me avoid relapses and I am fortunate to have rebuilt a healthy body and mind that can have adventures again.

Eating disorders are sneaky though. Confident in my recovery by then, I hadn’t considered enough how a six month cycle tour in 2019 would mess with my head. Even though I always know I have to be careful, I just assumed my cycle tour would be manageable. I knew my eating disorder would be cheering about going on a long tour where I would be exercising each day. But then, I was confident I was not doing the tour to change my body, I was doing it because I love cycling, adventure and touring. The reality was that it was a difficult dance. On the tour, our whole day felt like it became structured around food. It is all we did: eat, exercise, eat, sleep, repeat. Food, cooking, talking about food obtaining food, became one of the major events each day. It allowed the space for eating disordered thoughts to breed.

I was confident I was not doing the tour to change my body, I was doing it because I love cycling, adventure and touring.

Another trigger point for eating disorder thoughts is feeling hungry - and ask any cycle tourer, feeling ravenously hungry is part of the territory. I know part of my eating disorder is being afraid of my hunger, ashamed of my hunger and like I should not honour it, but rather control and curtail it. And yet, that was just simply not going to happen on a cycle tour. There were days I was losing the battle, the voices in my head were screaming the worst kind of abuses at me. I was in hell, and questioning why I had done this to myself. Then, there were days where I forgot I had a body, I so utterly delighted by life and the joy that touring brings.

“Everyone thought I would lose weight on a cycle tour,” our slender, male, Italian host tells us over dinner. “But I found it fascinating, I have actually never been as big. I put on a stone, my friends were shocked!”

The truth is that cycle touring and long-distance hiking have always made me heavier. Whether that is through muscle gain, or fat gain due to eating so much, or a lingering defence mechanism my body has to cling onto every fat cell out of fear I am going to starve it again, I will never truly know and, importantly, I try not to want to know. I know some people lose weight whilst adventuring, but not me. And even though that voice in my head is always chirruping away telling me I should be thinner, I know that doing a tour won’t mean I come home thinner. So, I feel disappointed and I also feel safe.

The truth is that cycle touring and long-distance hiking have always made me heavier.

The truth is, I still have an eating disorder, I still want to lose weight most days and plan how to do it. I am just really bad at it now. I cycle 80km and despite my ‘best’ eating disorder intentions, I end up eating chips in the pub because I am too busy enjoying the evening to be thinking about how I can lose weight. Being unwell with an eating disorder involves focusing your entire being onto the one goal of changing your body. When you find your self-worth, that unhealthy obsession to change your body, so often praised by people who say with alarming frequency - "I wish I had anorexia" - is gone. It was after all, only born out of trauma, turmoil and pain.

I wish I could tell you that recovery means I am completely free, eating all the cakes without worrying, running marathons without also thinking about the fat I might burn. I wish I had that. But, really, does anyone? I think recovery to me is being normal. Unfortunately, in our society obsessed with weight, appearance and female thinness, 'normal' means that I have internalised the narrative that I should move my body partly to change its shape, and not just for the simple love of moving it.

I have found acceptance knowing that this spectre of an eating disorder will come with me on all my journeys, whether that be a 2 mile run in the park, like today, or a 2000 mile cycle trip, like last year. I have to question things. Should I run today? Is it healthy to go on a cycle tour? Why do I really want to lift weights? Is it okay to feel bad about eating too much yesterday and want to eat less today? Or is this the beginning of a slippery slope? Sometimes the spectre grows and takes over my mind. But, mostly, my eating disorder thoughts just chirrup away merrily on their own and I have learnt to occupy a space with it, rather than be occupied by it.

Adventure may have started my eating disorder, but it has also helped to cure it. When I cycled up a mountain pass to Chamonix on one of my first cycle tours, wearing shorts despite hating my legs, a mountain guide commented on my large calf muscles. They were sturdy legs, useful for ice climbing, he admired. Initially mortified, I learnt to see that it was a compliment on the utility of my legs. I learnt to appreciate my legs and to thank my body for the things that it does. I will never love my body, but I can just be grateful it works.

Adventure may have started my eating disorder, but it has also helped to cure it.

Loving my body is not an aim either. Whilst initially finding it helpful for encouraging diverse bodies in the media, I am beginning to feel uneasy about the body positive movement. I think it misses the point because it puts the focus back on how your body looks. I would rather focus on what my body can do, not how it looks in a bikini. Thin, fat, or in between, I try to live my life from the principle that it doesn’t matter how I look and I don’t need to wear a bikini in a picture on Instagram to be recovered. I just need to exist in the world and do the things that I love. I need to go climbing and go for a run, practice yoga and go on adventures, without thinking about how I look too much.

The adventure community can be full of women who look a certain way. It is no coincidence - the type of people who push themselves on adventures are also quite likely to be disordered themselves, perfectionists or professional athletes forced to thinking about their weight. You’ll find many women who adventure also straddling the eating disorder/disordered eating line. Fortunately, more people are speaking up and we are making headway talking about the pressure on athletes to look a certain way. Outdated narratives around diet, weight and health are slowly being replaced by a recognition that you do need to eat to fuel yourself, cake is okay, bodies are all different, it is normal for your body to change with age and it is totally normal - and indeed healthy - to have fat. Especially if you are female.

My advice from my long battle with recovery is to do what you love and forget about changing your body. Talk only of the amazing adventures that your body has taken you on and the incredible things that your body can do.

About the Author:

Ruth is an adventurer, blogger and lover of the wilderness. She works as a research associate at the University of Sheffield and spends her spare time doodling, writing and exploring the Peak District. You can hear more from Ruth on her website: ruthandliamgoplaces.com

“Above all do not lose your desire to walk. Every day, I walk myself into a state of well-being and walk away from every illness. I have walked myself into my best thoughts, and I know of no one thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it” -Soren Kierkegaard

It was supposed to be the travel of a lifetime; a three month break in New Zealand with my boyfriend, to celebrate the completion of my PhD. I had painfully dragged myself across the submission line, survived my oral examination, and awkwardly tipple tailed out the other side as a Dr, nearly six years in the making. Vulnerable, newly severed from the grounding tethers of academic routine, I was a shipwreck waiting to happen. I did not yet know it, but my relationship would not prove to be the safe harbour I had assumed it to be.

One month into the trip, the cracks in my relationship had bulged into fault lines with seismic activity to match. We were staying at his sister’s house on an isolated island community for the Christmas period. Think, New Zealand’s answer to the Shining. New Year’s Day saw a humiliating, messy, chaotic and very public break up. Surrounded by immense natural beauty, literally dolphins pirouetting in the sun soaked sandy bay, I was living my own personal hell. I would soon be catching a ferry off the island. Alone. Heartbroken. And, that is where adventure began.

I briefly considered flying home. Nope, that would not do. I had always wanted to try multi-day hiking, and the perfect opportunity had arisen. I borrowed some walking boots, and registered onto a ‘Great Walk’ to start in three days. New Zealand’s ‘Great Walks’ are a series of nine well developed multi day routes, complete with signposts and a mandatory hut reservation system. Read, very hard to get lost and easy to do on your own. I had heard that you had to plan these walks months, if not years, in advance to get the huts and transport booked. I got lucky, and despite the inevitable tears and trauma of severance, I somehow found myself on a minibus to the start of my very first self-supported long distance walk; the Heaphy Track.

Not quite as dramatic as the female protagonist in the movie 'Wild' in the opening scene, where she can barely lift her rucksack, but that first day was a struggle. My enormous bag weighed me down, but not as much as my fears. I doubted I could carry my possessions, I was afraid my borrowed boots would give me blisters, I was scared I would not make the distances, I was terrified of getting lost (even though it seemed impossible), I was nervous of bad weather coming in, I was worried about everything. I was alone, there was no phone reception, and I was grieving. On the first day, I focussed solely on putting one foot in front of the other, remaining calm and negotiating with my inner demons. I made it to the hut. My shoulders were red raw. I made dinner. I cheered myself. I cried myself to sleep.

The second day proved a challenge due to torrential rain and poor visibility. I had to negotiate ferocious river crossings, flooded paths, muddy diversions and rain that penetrated even the best dry bags. It was a short day and I arrived at a tiny hut soaking wet, by lunch time, to meet two hikers, a mum and a daughter, drying their clothes next to a freshly made fire. They helped me dry my clothes, made me tea and gave me chocolate. We were joined that afternoon by two other hikers, a couple who hilariously had no rucksacks and were carrying their supplies of chocolate bars and supermarket bought sleeping gear in plastic bags. We bonded on that rainy afternoon and I quietly informed the gang of my recent break up. The next day, we set off on the walk, as a team.

I found myself gazing with wonder at the scenery, excitement rising in my chest, my heart pounding as I bounded along. Together we crossed rope bridges, washed in beautiful streams, shared picnic food and posed for dramatic photographs as the path led us through jungles, across beaches and over moors. When we arrived at the next hut, I declined the invitation to play card games, and instead took myself to the river mouth, where I sat amongst the bleached driftwood. As I watched the gigantic waves crashing into the sunset over the sea, I felt peaceful and grateful to be there. I was glad I did not get that flight home.

The final day of the four-day walk arrived too soon, and I crossed the finish line with my newfound gang, and hugged goodbye, never to see any of them again. Emboldened by my newfound physical and emotional strength, I spent the next six weeks hiking multi day paths. I developed enormous back muscles, a tan, sprained my ankle, chartered a helicopter to get over a landslip, celebrated my 30th birthday on a glacier, met more amazing people, never got a single blister, and healed my broken heart. I bought a one-man tent, and it felt right. I had fallen madly, and hopelessly in love with long distance walking.

Words and pictures by Ruth Naughton-Doe: Read her previous article, Embracing Personal Limits. Ruth has been cycle touring in France, Switzerland and Italy since May 2019 with her partner Liam. Since her first adventure cycle experience in Iceland in 2009, it has always been her dream to cycle across the world, but instead she got stuck cycling up mountain passes! Follow her adventures at www.ruthandliamgoplaces.com or on Instagram @ruthandliamgoplaces.

I set off on my tank of a touring bike with a vague plan to cycle to India with my partner Liam. We had some discussions before we pedalled off, agreeing to take it slow and avoid steep mountain passes, especially considering that neither of us had even ridden a bike for about five months, nevermind our 40-50kg loaded beasts. The first few months comprised of battling a record breaking 42 degrees Celsius French heat wave and skirting up and down Pyrenean foothills before seeking rest near Lake Geneva. It was challenging, but mostly fun. The second part of our trip, by comparison, left me feeling a confusing mix of empowered and broken by completely overhauling any preconceived notions of my personal limits!

On a previous trip in 2009 I had cycled a Tour de France pass in the Alps Col de Forclaz (1527m), and we had the bright idea to repeat the ascent. We enjoyed the challenge so much that we became intrigued with the idea of pushing ourselves. Our sensible plans to take it easy abandoned, we cycled over an even bigger pass, Col de Mont Cenis (2081m), to cross over from France into Italy. Drunk on euphoria, we then immediately tackled Col de Lis (1311m), which felt even harder due to steep sections. Our excitement at discovering just what our bodies were capable of resulted in us tackling eight Alpine mountain passes covering 1200km with 20,500m of ascent in just three weeks – and I was carrying a slackline.

Prior to this trip, I would have vehemently argued that I could not cycle a loaded touring bike up a gradient steeper than 10%. I can now confirm (supported by Garmin data!) that I can manage a gradient of 25%. That particular section was unintentional, when we accidentally found ourselves on an unmarked pass after an already difficult day. It was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. I was in tears just from the sheer exertion required to push down my pedals. I told myself that I could not do it. Repeatedly. I told Liam that I could not do it. Repeatedly. My bike kept falling over sideways because I could not pedal it. I could not get back on my bike as gravity was defiantly trying to roll it back down the hill. I cycled 8m sections at a time. I cycled in switchbacks on the switchbacks. And I got there.

And then, there was the supposedly “easy day.” Which turned out to be the hardest day yet. This time I had proper tears, not just from physical exertion, but from the emotional labour required to cycle up steeper and steeper hills, which just when you thought it was all over, surprised you with even more severe gradients. Self doubt started to consume me and negative thoughts about how ‘weak’ I was began to pollute my mind. I realised that I was no longer enjoying myself and I wanted to stop. Exhausted and disappointed with myself, I sat crying into a tin of mackerel in a layby in the rain. Maybe I wasn’t the tough adventure woman I had always thought I was.

My despair was magnified by Liam finding the whole experience much easier than me. In the beginning, my greater cycling experience meant that despite him being male, much taller than me, and six years my junior, we were about equal. However, as we cycled on, the tide turned. It seemed to me that the more I began to struggle, the fitter and faster he became! It was fine most of the time, but on the steeper hills (over 9%), I just did not have the physical strength to push down my pedals for very long. My legs began to fail me, and I needed rests all the time. I felt frustrated because I have pride, so it turns out, in my physical and mental toughness. I did not want to be ‘weaker’ than Liam, I wanted to be as fast as him, and I wanted to carry as much as him. I had a hard lesson to learn.

I found it very difficult to admit to myself, let alone to Liam, that I was reaching my physical limit. After crying alone with my mackerel, we had a big chat that helped me see reason. Liam argued that if I was struggling, it was logical that he should start carrying more than me. I was mortified by having to admit that I needed help and that Liam was stronger than me. Despite challenging gender and age inequality in everyday life, there were maybe undeniable biological differences between Liam and I that I had to acknowledge. Or maybe he just had better gears than me.

I discussed the problems I was having accepting my limitations with some fellow cycle tourers that we met during this period. One seasoned Italian world tourer, Eduardo, simply commented that of course Liam should carry more, he is the man. Another pair, Chris and Keith, reassured me that learning your physical and emotional limits actually makes you stronger. Keith empathised that the greatest lesson he had learnt from his solo bike trip was to know when to stop and ask for help.

Pedalling away from Chris’s house, with Liam now carrying the slackline, I tried to take courage that it was okay to find things hard and ask for support. My heart was telling me how strong I was, but the experience of extreme struggle had left me totally deflated and devoid of my characteristic positivity and confidence. I had never doubted myself in this way before and I was distraught, convinced I would be unable to cycle the two remaining mountain passes that I had been so excited about, including our biggest one yet, Albula, at 2300m. There were tears before 11am.

Well, I made it. We got over the two passes and it surprisingly felt a lot easier than some of the ones we had done before. Partly this was due to us leaving some of our gear behind, having a rest day and inflating my tyres (doh). I had to accept that I was stronger than I was before, even though I didn’t feel it.

Sharing my struggles with friends and family, many have commented that it was stupid to cycle up so many mountain passes, yet I absolutely loved everything about this trip and what we achieved. Incredible adventures are not always just about having fun. They are about discovering your limits, meeting the worst parts of yourself, pushing through those self-critical voices and…learning hard lessons. Yes, I spent some parts of every day cycling over the mountain passes either in tears, or close to them. But, I was happy. And, I learned how to ask for help.

Written by Ruth Naughton-Doe: Ruth has been cycle touring in France, Switzerland and Italy since May 2019 with her partner Liam. Since her first adventure cycle experience in Iceland in 2009, it has always been her dream to cycle across the world, but instead she got stuck cycling up mountain passes! Follow her adventures at www.ruthandliamgoplaces.com or on instagram @ruthandliamgoplaces.