16th Blantyre Three Peaks Walk. 25 June 2000. A personal view
Ian "Mad
Axeman" Mason invented this thing 17 years ago
and has a lot to answer for. Including blisters.
A mid-winter night in
the Shire Highlands. A dozen shivering lunatics drift into the BSC carpark at
4.45am. Yes, am. Those whose eyes are open peer at one another suspiciously
through the gloom. Others appear to be inspecting their neighbour's footwear:
trendy trainers, scruffy tackies, walking boots, veldschoens and, Heaven
forbid, here's Mike Orr-Burns with genuine British Army issue marching boots,
one on each foot. 'Ha ha! Most comfortable boots I've ever had,' beamed Mike.
'Never had a single blister'. Nor had either boot done the Blantyre TPW, I
thought. Anyway, Mike's far too bloody cheerful for this time of night. Others
are more inhibited, waiting silently for instructions like exiles in a Gulag.
Muffled mutterings are heard, like 'Damn, I forgot to cut my toenails', 'We're all
mad', 'I think I'll climb only one peak', 'Where's our leader? If he doesn't
pitch up, we can all go back to bed', 'Hmm — three medical doctors in the
party so we should be OK' (as if doctors are somehow immune from blisters,
sunburn, cramp, vertigo, dehydration, broken ankle or buggered cartilage), '...
Thought Heidi was coming ... where's Dennis Lewis? Ah — here's Yvonne.'
Suddenly a Land Rover
containing Dennis Ross appears in a cloud of dust. We load up our heavy gear:
spare kit, lunch, Zimmer frames, anything we don't need until after the descent
from Michiru. Then, like corks from bottles, we burst out of the back of the
club and down Independence Drive, happy the tension is over and to be on our
way. I carry a light daypack with emergency supplies only, but immediately get
left behind. I think the pace is far too fast, but I know that we have 26 miles
ahead of us plus 14,000ft of altitude difference. I also know that to get round
in 12 hours, we have to average 2.4mph all day long (not counting refuelling
and pee stops) and the bloody day hasn't started yet — it's still dark
and chilly, but we are already working up a sweat and some of us are down to
T-shirts even before we begin the ascent up Michiru Peak from Chilomoni. The
pace-setters miss the right turn through the village before Chilomoni and are
forced to do the dog-leg on the pot-holed tarmac, adding an extra half mile to
the route. We regroup at the Forestry Office and then continue climbing fast
through the brachystegia. The sky is brightening over Sanjika Hill. Let's get
some distance behind us before it warms up. Plenty of mist around. Let's pray
for cloud cover, even some chip — this is one day of the year we
don't want the sun. With Andy in the vanguard we're on the first summit just
after 7am, slightly behind schedule, but only 10 minutes between leaders and
laggards. Bit of cloud swirling around and it's still cool so we don't hang
around and quickly cover the descent to the Michiru Wildlife office for the
breakfast stop. Too quickly for some, as this is the loveliest part of the
route, mainly in forest and, amazingly, neither sight nor sound of
wood-gatherers. A troop of baboons gets excited as we pass. 12-year-old Ryan is
going like a train. But the pace is telling for a few who pitch up some 20
minutes after the leaders. Dennis is busy with his camping stove and we wash
down our packed breakfasts with several mugs of hot sweet tea.
Off down the old
Chileka Road to the lowest point of the route — 2,600ft. Up and down
again towards Kabula Hill. Kabula Hill? Aren't we getting too close to
Blantyre? Haven't we missed the turn-off to Swiya Village? We have to cross a
river — ah! here it is. A dusty route march through the seemingly endless
township. Locals in their Sunday best, many holding bibles. Much moni bambo!-ing,
muli bwanji!-ing and azungu!-ing. Half a mile now separates first
from last, but each walker makes sure the one behind is still in sight, if not
within earshot. In the middle of Swiya, Andy pioneers a new route by taking a
right fork followed by a double-back to a sharp left, but it doesn't matter as
long as we keep the still-distant bulk of Ndirande dead ahead. Two main roads
to cross, scramble up the bank onto the railway track, squeals as we cross the
ravine with gaping holes between the sleepers. African sleepers (railway
sleepers, silly!) are not equidistant so we lose the rhythm that we have
perfected after five hours. Dishevelled and scruffy, we collapse in the
Johnston's garden and refuel. I need at least two mugs of Dennis's miraculous
tea. Looking cool and glamourous, Maria greets us with a big smile (and a kiss
for the lucky ones). We pretend not to notice Nick already looking at his
watch. Mike O-B staggers up the drive and announces he's got an enormous
blister on each foot and has had enough. David Morrison also succumbs to a
blister. Debbie Murphy also retires, as does Yvonne Robb who is unaware she is
in the early stages of malaria.
One of the tiny
remnants of forest left on Ndirande is in the lower slopes behind the
Johnstons' house, so we enjoy it while we can, remembering to fork left in the
middle of it. Soon we emerge from the woodland for the long haul up to the
saddle. In five years, this land has changed from cool forest with perennial
streams into treeless, hoed gardens separated by dry, steep, eroded channels.
The old trail has long since disappeared, but Nick has reccied a route towards
the east that will bring us out on the lower part of the forest road below the
saddle. Stubbornly, I scramble up in direction of the old route, aiming for the
dip in the skyline. This is a mistake. I aim too high, there is no longer a
direct line. I struggle up through broken country to reach the forest track,
only to find the rest of the party high above me, already on the gully route,
probably 10 minutes ahead. Two lessons: don't ignore a recent recce and the
shortest route is not always the quickest. Then I temporarily lose sight of the
others. I am now in the gully, which is unfamiliar because it is overgrown. No
sign of passage of the other scramblers. At the head of the gully I learn the
reason why — they all came up a parallel gully, recently created by local
women rolling down their scrumped logs — the trees are now gone so let's
hope some regrowth repairs the damage, before there's a landslide. On Ndirande
Peak, at 5,279ft the highest point of the route, I spot the rest of the party
scrambling down steep woodcutters' paths. I think of the rain forest that
covered these slopes in the earlier years of this event. At the radio station
on Kamuzu View we stop for lunch. Dennis produces yet another welcome brew-up.
Mike O-B reappears. He doesn't want to miss the fun and joins Dennis on the
Naafi wagon. The rest of us contemplate our navels and the prospect of a
further five hours of the same 'fun'.
The descent to
Nkolokoti starts very steeply. Barry asks the watchmen what it's like. They
admit they have 'never been down there'. Undeterred by this discouraging news,
we tumble over the edge like lemmings. Mad azungu? We are behind
schedule but the next hour is downhill. The pace quickens past Nkolokoti and
down to Hynde Dam where Verena and Mike O-B wait with refreshments. Dennis now
swaps roles and joins us for the long march through Limbe. I drag myself to my
feet having decided not to pull out after all. We are now nine and I leave
last. For me this is always the worst part as we slog through the outskirts of
noisy, dusty Limbe. I try to pass the time by guessing the number of paces to
the next turn-off. I lose concentration, take a wrong turning near the
Satellite Station and pitch up at the Soche Secondary School stop as the others
are preparing to leave again. Verena cheers me up with some strange magic
potion. Chairman Martin, direct from Chileka, now joins us for the final peak,
having just returned from England on the lunchtime plane — what
dedication! I'm glad to see him because he talks me up Mt Soche. We try a new
route through the forest and the path emerges just below the summit boulders
— the old 'yellow route'? Don't know, but it's wonderful to be in the
forest again and we marvel that it's still there! Exposed scramble to the
beacon — one or two stay below and miss the great view, just before
sunset.
Less than an hour of
daylight left so we can't hang around. The descent from Soche is always tough
on the knees and ankles and today is no exception. Barry is showing exhaustion
as he asks how much further? The original route description reads '.. pass to
the left of a hill with 'Long Live Kamuzu' on it ..' Not much use because the
inscription was not on the approach side and the aforesaid gentleman no longer
lives. Nevertheless we identify the hill, keeping it to our right instead of
left because Dennis says so and because only he knows where the final drinks
stop is hidden. Sure enough, there are Mike O-B and Verena parked near
Chimwankunda dam. We have shortened the 'official' route by a few more precious
yards. Have to remember that next year. Next year? We are getting light-headed
and carried away. Let's try and finish THIS year. We refuel for the last time
and tackle the streets of Zingwangwa — it's now dark and the traffic in
Kapeni Road gets on our nerves, but the end is nigh. I shuffle along like a
zombie. By comparison, Amanda, Harriet, Andy and Marcel still seem cool and
fit, but I know they are pretending — I remember my first three-peaker
and swore I'd never do it again. The pace quickens again as we rush over Mt
Pleasant for the final excruciating climb up Victoria Avenue and we actually
jog into BSC. Dirt, sweat and pain are briefly forgotten with our sense of
achievement and .....the cold Green we've been thinking about all day.
"Midnight"
Jack Bannister did it nine times and led eight of them, each one in mountain
boots. He finished every one without a single blister. Someone suggested that
because his legs are twice as long as a normal mortals', his paces are
therefore longer and he only pounds the ground half as much. But why don't
short people like Yvonne Robb and Ryan Murphy (see below) get blisters? Yvonne
does four paces to one of Jack's. These are the things you think about as you
plod along. It takes your mind off the cramp and how you wish you'd carried a
couple more naartjies. One year, Andy "Sideways" Crabb and
Adrian "Legs" Cumberland decided to run the thing — no silly, I
don't mean run = organise, I mean run as in gallop, jog, canter, sprint. Well,
they set off at 5am like a pair of impala pursued by a pack of wild dogs.
Nobody saw them again until we got down to Hynde Dam for the 2pm rehydrant stop.
They lay on the ground still panting, having only beaten the walkers by 10
minutes after losing their way twice in the rain forest coming off Ndirande.
And then there was the time I carried a pedometer and ran a sweepstake on the
total paces — Dave Harrison who flew in from Tanzania for the event, won
the beer with a suspiciously close guess — I often wonder whether he
counted my every step. The following year, Dave McMullan carried a magnum of
Champagne on his back together with ice and glasses and we celebrated in style
on each summit. Nutters all of us but that's the great thing about the TPW
— it brings people together; it's a great social event. It's also a
little like banging your head on a wall — it's wonderful when you stop.
In previous years, finishers
staggered (Martin Horrocks and I, in a final burst of adrenaline, once ran the
last 100 steps up Victoria Avenue) into the club up to an hour apart. This
year, less than 10 minutes separate the nine finishers. This is the 16th
Blantyre TPW and my 11th. They have all been great. But this year's is the best
and the friendliest. Why? Probably because we all stay together and help each
other, the faster walkers waiting for the stragglers. It isn't the fastest
— 13 hours 20 minutes — but what the hell? After all, it is not a
race. The usual liquid inquest takes place back at the club. Would we do it
again? Round the table, the cries of 'No way' are unanimous .... almost:
12-year-old Ryan Murphy, our youngest ever three-peaker, says he would
definitely return for more of the same in 2001 —
in fact given half a chance, I think he'd start again immediately. Next day I
see Ryan's Dad, Eugene, and suggest it's his turn now that Ryan and Debbie have
had a crack at it. I reckon Eugene's one of the fittest blokes around. He asked
Ryan whether he could do it. Ryan's reply? 'Not a chance, Dad'. Will I do it
again in 2001 and make it a round dozen? If I'm in
Malawi at the time I won't be able to help myself. The pain does wear off
eventually. And I shall expect you there on the starting line, Eugene.
Many thanks to Nick
Beare and great back-up support from Dennis Ross, Mike Orr-blistered-Burns,
Verena Petzold and once again to Frank and Maria Johnston for letting the whole
sweaty mob of us trample over their garden for the 16th time.
Eight walkers
completed the course: Barry Coetzee, Amanda Gibbon, Ryan Murphy, Andy Jennings,
Harriet van Rooyen, Nick Beare, Marcel Schutgen and Mike Petzold. Yvonne Robb,
Debbie Murphy, David Morrison and Mike Orr-Burns climbed Michiru and retired at
the Johnstons. Dennis Ross joined us at Hynde Dam and Martin Horrocks at Soche
Hill Secondary School for the ascent of Mt Soche peak and the final stages.
Tips for Blantyre
three-peakers: Rub Meths (methylated spirits — not a commercial!) into
the soles of your feet every night for 10 days before the event. Cut your
toenails the night before — failure to do this will mean losing toenails
on the descents, whatever your footwear — I lost six toenails after the
1998 event. Carry water. Take a few glucose tablets to suck (John Killick mixes
Corpse Reviver into his water: salt, glucose and citric acid to taste). Unless
you have particularly weak ankles, I would not recommend walking boots for the
Blantyre TPW as there are long stretches of hard walking between the peaks, an
almost certain recipe for blisters (unless you are Jack Bannister) —
instead I favour WELL-WORN trainers but with plenty of grip left on them. Hat
and sweat-band are indispensable. Lay off the booze and go to bed at 8pm the
night before. During the event, nibble energy-foods often — don't eat
heaps at lunchtime. Don't set off too fast — relax and settle into your
own pace — everyone's is different. Loosen top laces for ascents; tighten
for descents. Unless you have agreed to be rear sweeper AND know the route,
glance behind occasionally to check whether the next walker is OK. Mike
"Mad" Petzold
©
WDYFO, 2000