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Best Travel Writing 2011

Here are the winners and shortlisted pieces for our 2011 Travel Writing Competitions.

Winner: Jean McNeil for The Skeleton Coast (Damaraland, Namibia)

The Skeleton Coast

5. Ugab River

September 2011 – spring in the southern hemisphere. The days lengthen perceptibly, they lean into the long dry summer months to come.

Eight kilometres beyond the Save the Rhino camp the finish line awaits. This is such a trifling distance for us now, after walking 20 to 30 kilometres every day in the desert heat for the past seven days, that Jan doesn’t even put on his trainers. ‘I used to track in these,’ he says, sliding his feet into flip-flops.       

There are consequences to walking 150 kilometres in a landscape that Jan and his fellow rhino trackers call ‘Mars’. My feet are swaddled in zinc tape and smeared with mythalamide, a lurid lotion that stops blisters from bleeding. We’ve even had to bandage the dogs’ paws; Tiki the little herding dog pads along on plasters.

For six days now we’ve seen no-one but ourselves, apart from a couple of Landrovers full of lost South Africans. Yesterday was our longest day, 30 kilometres. We walked over red boulders and through dry cuts in the desert under an indigo sky.

We stop to taste desert lettuce. It is a succulent; in Namibia many plants survive on the sea mist which drifts inland from the Skeleton Coast, a desert littoral raked by a frigid ocean current from Antarctica. The lettuce tastes of the sea.

Suddenly there is an explosion from the river grass. A creature sprints past me, pursued by Tsaurab, Jan’s ridgeback. It’s a kudu, a dusk-coloured antelope. They tear down the sandbed of the Ugab, an ephemeral river – so-called because it flows only a few days a year.

‘Will he catch it?’

‘Not on his own,’ Jan says. ‘If there were three or four of them, maybe.’

I remember I nearly died five days ago – or was it six? This near-event resonates on the voluptuous frequency of the words this landscape elicits – succulent, ephemeral  –  such ornate words for this denuded place. It is one of those landscapes that sinks into you like a thorn you try to extract but which never quite comes out, and so is absorbed and dissolved into your body. 

4. Hyena Camp

Jan, Elise, Caro and I sleep outside with a bedroll and sleeping bags. The ‘Aunties’ as Jan calls them (not to their faces) – Alice, Jacqueline, Maya – sleep in tents. There are very few lion and leopard around – so we hope – and a few desert elephant. We have no rifle, no all-night fire, only the Pajero and the LandCruiser as a cordon.

All night I hear jackal and hyena. The jackal’s bark ripples, it is almost a coo, like whales communicating underwater. I wear a British Airways eyemask against the Cyclops glare of the moon. The Bushmen said ‘we are the Dreamer’s dream,’ and it’s not hard to imagine a remote intelligence in these dark skies curdled with constellations.

In the year and a half since I was last in Namibia Stephen, my poet friend who wrote a collection of poems about the Bushmen called Return of the Moon, has died. I am doing this charity trek in his name, or his memory – I’m not sure how to put it. But here I am on his behalf, a proxy.

This area of the Namib was formed when the Atlantic retreated 300 million years ago. By day we walk through eerily vacant Gondwanaland plains. ‘Ten years ago this place was teeming, man,’ Jan says. Now weekend hunters come from Windhoek or Swakopmund in portly 4x4s. We have seen a secretive black rhino, scared the living daylights out of a mother giraffe alone with her calf, scattered nervous springbok and ostriches – all of them eyeing us, stiff with the imminent threat of slaughter.  

3. Doros Crater

Three days into the trek. We walk for seven hours without rest. The last hour is a 30 minute vertical scramble to the top of Doros Crater. I rest and read Stephen’s collected poems.  ‘I wrote Return of the Moon because of a dream I had sleeping out in the bush,’ Stephen told me last year. ‘The Bushman came to me in the dream and said, write this down. I give my students that question, now, as an exercise: What dream did your character have the night before the story started?’

2. Dunes

Barchan dunes stalk the Skeleton Coast. These are the classic dunes from those chilling aerial shots of the Namib: a solid wall of sand on one side, a cold beach stripped of fur seals by beachcomber hyenas, then a relentless line of breakers which no sailor, once shipwrecked, could re-enter. We climb up and down these ‘undulations,’ as Jan calls them. It is hard going: the sand is soft, there is no wind.

1. Puff Adder

It is quarter past seven in the morning when I nearly step on the snake.

I know well enough what you are supposed to do when you encounter a puff adder: stop dead, back away. It strikes at 300 kilometres an hour – that’s faster than a jet departing the runway. It doesn’t move at a human’s approach; ‘I’m going to kill you so why bother’ sums up its world-view.

Instead I step over it thinking, oh, that’s a bloody puff adder.

Jan lifts the snake up on the end of Jacqueline’s walking pole. His belly is a vanilla bronze and glitters in the early morning sun. Jan says, ‘I used to play with these but then a mate of mine got bitten on the hand and we had to cut off his fingers so he wouldn’t die.’

There are no shadows in this land; the sun cauterises them. At night temperatures plummet to near zero; we migrate between winter and 40 degrees every day.

In Stephen’s poems, a Bushman says that a man is truly dead when his spoor fills with rain. All people who die become stars:

There are whole clans of people-

Men, women and children-

Long since become stars.

Reading his poems in the yellow wind of the Namib, I see how he absorbed the tense, resinous tone of this land so thoroughly. I understand now why he was an expeditionary walker, how walking and poetry are twinned. I like listening to the pleasing click of mind that walking with such intensity elicits. I put down the book of poems and stare at the dun hills. Stephen’s voice – as a poet, as a person – still rings in my mind. Only when you stop remembering what someone’s voice sounds like are they truly dead.

0. The Dream

The night before I nearly step on the adder I wake from a dream to the gurgle of jackals hunting in the shadow of the Brandberg. I was in my flat in Cape Town and there was a strange man in my shower wearing only chocolate-coloured Ugg boots. The man was flimsy, urban, a writer type. I say to the dream in a bleak panic take me back, take me back please! And I wake in the Namib, the dogs asleep beside me. There is always a dream the night before the story starts, but we don’t always remember it.

Runner up: Liz Cleere for Pink City Detours (Jaipur, India)

Pink City Detours

The vendor wanted ten rupees (about 12p) for a gloopy crimson drink in a hastily wiped glass. In a nod to hygiene the sidekick wore a grubby cloth tied round his head, but over his sweat stained shirt a grubby woollen vest was streaked with Jackson Pollock stains. After nine hours of almost uninterrupted walking Jamie and I wondered if we were tired and thirsty enough to try the lurid concoction.

The day had begun with breakfast on a wide lawn, under the trees of our stately havelli (mansion), Arya Niwas. Blossom floated down into our coffee cups as Jamie checked his camera batteries, and I made some last minute tweaks to the route. Lying just outside Jaipur's pink crenellated walls our hotel is not far from Chandpol Gate, the perfect place from where to start. The aim was to spend a day slowly walking an eight kilometre circuit of the old city, scooping up all the main sights along the way. But in India plans tend to be set in jelly.

After breakfast we strolled out of our hotel onto a side road, and through a group of sleeping cycle rickshaw drivers. One of them sprang into action as we passed, but looked crestfallen when – pointing at our walking boots and rucksacks – we declined his offer of a city tour. He accepted our hollow promises to use his services in the future with a jaundiced eye, and climbed back into his carriage.

As we headed up the main drag, tantalising glimpses of the famous pink wall peeped out between the commercial buildings lining the Sansar Chandra Marg. But Jaipur's desert dust and choking traffic fumes soon forced our first detour. Escaping the smog, we ducked into a side alley, and arrived in a medieval world of small commercial workshops. Groups of cows nibbled and sneezed at piles of smelly rubbish, and a stick-thin child pumped water from a standpipe. Like a row of caves, unlit shops – their shelves stuffed with illegible cardboard packets and rusting tins – crowded together along the antediluvian lanes.

The quiet detour came to an abrupt end when we emerged from the Middle Ages into a twentieth century traffic maelstrom. The Chandpol Gateway is one of only eight breaks in Jaipur's twenty foot high, eight feet deep city wall. The ornate pink gate comprises a central archway, flanked by two smaller arches, through which a relentless stream of people, animals and vehicles stream: on foot; by bicycle, moped or motorbike; in rickshaws (cycle and motorised); with carts pulled by donkeys (or humans); in delivery vans, taxis or private cars. A full orchestra of sound accompanied the squeezing and pushing:, vehicles hooted and honked their horns, bicycles ding-a-linged and shouted, everyone cleared their nasal and wind passages with gusto, and children cried, laughed or screamed. Waking dogs barked, sleeping dogs played dead, goats ate posters off the walls, donkeys flicked their ears, and the “Kings of the Road” – India's holy cows – nonchalantly chewed the cud in the middle of it all.

"Hey, do you want a Jaipur helicopter ride?" shrieked a 14 year old cycle rickshaw driver.

He veered into us, cutting off our route. No thanks, we're OK. Looking determinedly ahead we side-stepped his front wheel and got lost in the crowd.

On the other side of the city wall, early eighteenth century salmon pink decorative terraces stretched into the distance, along the wide and graceful – but frenetic – Chandpol Bazaar. We took our second detour of the day, and fled the pandemonium down the first passage we saw, the shade and quiet of this unnamed lane allowing us to draw breath in peace. In 1727 Maharajah Sawai Jai Singh II built Jaipur on a grid system, laying out major tree-lined avenues in straight lines from north to south and east to west. Tiny alleys and lanes honeycomb the areas in between. We found ourselves in a less travelled corner, and realising that our walk might be more comfortable if we left the route to chance, I folded the map into my pocket. A few faces looked up as we approached and gave us the usual smile and “where are you from?” greeting.

We zigged and zagged our way through narrow alleys lined with tall buildings, wandering roughly in the direction of UNESCO-listed Jantar Mantar. Gazing upwards we saw countless skeletons of brightly coloured kites tangled among the spaghetti of cables and wires, which hold all of India's cities together.

Kites weren't the only reason for looking up, entire troops of monkeys live with their human neighbours, mostly on the rooftops, in this densely populated place. They jumped across passages, deftly leaping from ledge to windowsill to rooftop to balustrade, nature's original free runners. The locals laughed at our appreciation of this display of gymnastics, and showed no interest in the everyday occurrence, only breaking off to hurl the odd stone if the monkeys came too close to food.

Like most cities in India, each area specialises in one trade, and we lost track of time and place crossing between the invisible barriers. We picked our way through vaults of timber, interspersed with small workshops where men carved miniature Ganeshes-in-boxes out of spicy sandalwood. Next the sound of angle grinders echoed from a hundred tiny ateliers, as stone carvers worked their magic on blocks of marble. Our vision was blurred by stone dust filling the air like the finest white desert sand. Although the artistry was world class, there seemed to be little consideration for safety: we saw no masks, goggles or ear plugs, and many of the carvers worked in flip flops. In another alley we spent an hour with two men working a hand operated printing press, straight from William Caxton's workshop.

By the afternoon we hadn't seen any of the better known sights of Jaipur, so we took a look round the jazzy city palace, which present day descendants of the old Maharajah still call home. Revived by a Rajput snack in the cool palace courtyard, we relaxed into the crowds on Johari and Bapu Bazaar, where textiles in every colour and print that ever existed were for sale. Declining invitations to step inside the bountiful shops, we preferred to watch elegant Indian women in elaborate saris command attention from suitably deferential assistants.

Later, and flagging again, we came across the street vendor and his sidekick. A small crowd jostled for homemade fruit and vegetable smoothies, so we joined the fray and chose the special: beetroot, parsnip, amla (a cross between a large green olive and a gooseberry) and lemon. It tasted of the earth and trees, of air and grass; it was sweet and sour and wholly delicious, the perfect balm for dusty, arid throats.

As we drained our glasses we noticed an ancient cycle rickshaw driver waiting patiently next to us. We had set out nine hours earlier, and it would be another two hours to get back to the hotel if we walked straight there. He looked like he could use the fare.
 
“Can you take us to Arya Niwas?”

Runner up: Christine Genovese for The Pilgrim’s Trail (Mont St Michel, France)

The Pilgrim’s Trail

From Bec d’Andaine to Mont St. Michel.

It’s the 1st of July and I’m standing in the dunes at Bec d’Andaine looking out over the Bay of Mont St. Michel. To the east – on my left – is the innermost part of the Bay. About 20 kms to the west is the horizon, where the Bay meets the Atlantic Ocean between Granville in Normandy and Pointe du Grouin in Brittany. Looking south across the empty seabed, the distinctive silhouette of Mont St. Michel is clearly outlined against the blue sky. It’s the destination for this day’s walk.

It doesn’t look far … a leisurely stroll across the sands. The distance, however, is 6.5 kms and the crossing is not without an element of danger which the Bay only reveals to those who venture close enough.

The tides dictate all activities in the Bay and our walk is scheduled around today’s low tide. This morning’s 8 am high tide has left its marks on the beach in front of me.

The Bay of Mont St. Michel has the highest tides in Europe. The vertical difference can reach as much as 16 metres, while the distance between the high and low tide marks can be up to 15 kms. That’s a lot of water shifted in and out of the Bay in the course of 12 hours. The scenic spectacle is at its most awe-inspiring during the equinox spring tides, but even the average movement of the sea over the vast area of the Bay is impressive. Today’s tide has an 88 rating. That’s on the high side of a scale that ranges from 20 to 120.

Our walk leaves at 11.30am, 3˝ hours after the high tide. The crossing to Mont St. Michel takes 2 hours followed by an hour to explore the medieval village. Halfway through that hour, the tide will turn. We then have the 2 hour walk back and should be here by 4.30 pm. The next high tide is at 8 pm, leaving the 3˝ hour margin again. If you add it all up, you’ll see that the 12 hour interlude between two high tides is carefully calculated for a safe crossing.

I’m joining a group of about 30 people, led by an official guide. We wear shorts and walk barefoot. Most of us have a backpack with our sandals, bottled water and other necessities.

We head off. Hopes of a walk across firm sand are quashed from the start. We’re sloshing through sticky, grey silt that coats our feet and calves. Then we reach firm sand and find little pools where we rinse off the silt.

V-formations of Canada geese fly overhead and the guide points out marks left in the sand by underground creatures. There are cushions of gas where vents from the depth let out the overflow. We find areas of quicksand where a foot is easily sucked down. We test it gingerly while the guide tells us the legend about the newly-weds coming home across the Bay in their horse-driven carriage after the wedding ceremony. A fiddler walks alongside the carriage playing his merry tunes. Then a fog descends and the couple, the carriage and the horses are never seen again. But, even now, many centuries later, when the Bay is in a dangerous mood, the sound of the merry fiddler playing his tunes can be heard, and people close their doors and stay in.

We’re following the trail of many pilgrims since the Benedictines moved into Mont St. Michel in the 10th century. A well-trodden path you might say. But the sea wipes the Bay clean twice a day. The outgoing tide, assisted by the winds, subtly alters the entire seabed. Even the guides never see the same scenery twice and yet the character of the Bay has remained unchanged for thousands of years.

We’ve been walking for over an hour across virgin sands. The coast we left is distant and Mont St. Michel seems no nearer. With the infinite sky above us and the endless sands around us, we’re at the centre of the universe. It’s a cosmic moment – a brief brush with eternity.

We reach the first of the two rivers that flow into the Bay. It’s about 10 metres wide and far from a tame trickle. We brace ourselves against the rushing current and cautiously make our way to the other side, aided by a surge of adrenaline.

The seabed is no longer flat. There are humps as we approach Tombelaine, a rocky outcrop where there was once a medieval hamlet. It’s now a bird sanctuary where amongst other species shelducks nest. When the tide is in seals can be seen playing there or sunning themselves on the rocks.

We cross the second river, slightly more confident of our ability to cope with the elements. Mont St. Michel begins to come into focus. The Abbey first, then the shapes on the rock turn into quaint little houses clinging to the steep sides.

The final part of the crossing is another trudge through thick, slimy silt. We arrive like shipwrecked savages in the sophisticated world of mass tourism.

There’s a standpipe at the entrance and we clean up as best we can before venturing into the lower realms of the Mont St. Michel village where a seething crowd of tourists battle their way through the maze of souvenir shops.

I slip through the crowds and climb the narrow streets towards the Abbey where I slow down to take in the stunning view of the seabed we just crossed. There are glimpses into peaceful little private gardens and winding stairway alleys. I’m struck by the contrast between the grandeur of the Abbey and the humble medieval houses with their slate or shingle roofs. But it’s time to rejoin the group for the walk back.

It’s a relief to leave the milling crowds behind and breathe in the sea-scented air. The wind is picking up and wisps of cloud streak the sky. As we pass Tombelaine the shrill trill of the curlew fills the air. The tide is coming in and I imagine the first fringes of water gently sliding round Tombelaine followed by the great mass of water that will fill the entire bay. According to the locals it comes in ‘as fast as a galloping horse’. How soon will it reach this area?

The wind makes it harder to keep our balance as we ford the rivers with water rushing up over our knees and unseen lumps and bumps underfoot. Once through we start scanning the coastline for landmarks. It was easy on the way out with Mont St. Michel beckoning us towards it. But here I fail to recognise any distinguishing features until the guide points to headlands along the coast. An intimate knowledge of the area is essential. I shudder at the thought of poor visibility, and at the sad fate of those long-ago newly-weds.

We reach Bec d’Andaine as planned at about 4.30 pm after a 13 km walk done in five hours. It was an otherworldly experience out there – in the sea’s rightful territory – so unlike the terra firma where we belong.

Runner up: Vickie McGee for The Climb (Helvellyn, Lake District, UK)

The Climb

I stood in stunned silence, mobile pressed to ear, unsure of how to respond to the proposition left floating on the airwaves between us.

It'll be fun, my Dad said. Just you and me.

An anxious laugh burst from my lips. Fun? What could possibly be fun about climbing Helvellyn, England's third highest peak, while attempting to keep up with a man who, a decade ago, underwent a personal fitness renaissance.

I'm not sure...? I said, biding my time while sifting through a mental catalogue of excuses saved for such emergencies.

“Look, we're not talking Kilimanjaro here, Vic,” he said, sensing my trepidation. “And we'd go slowly.” He paused for a beat before adding, “After all, even Jen fell short of the summit.”

Even Jen. Even my wonderful, athletic, PE-teaching sister couldn't surmount the mount. Well it must be difficult then – nigh on impossible, even. I had to smile; I hadn't even agreed to the trip and already I was being consoled about falling short.

I glanced at the reflection of my overweight, under-fit, 20-something self in the bedroom window, and asked where she'd made it to.

“Red Tarn. About two thirds of the way.”

“OK,” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I'll do it.”

***

The beautifully converted farm building that is Gillside Bunkhouse lies on the edge of Glenridding, a sedate village lapped by the waters of Ullswater. Costing a modest Ł12 per night per guest, its interior caters to need not want and, although it's designed to sleep around 20 exhausted walkers, that weekend, our hiking boots were the only two pairs standing in the porch.

We set out from the bunkhouse under the pallid light of a spring dawn. For the previous fortnight, determined to succeed, I'd maintained a strict training regimen, condensing my daily ten-minute walk to the train station into nine and using the office printer next door rather than the one within my grasp. But as we neared the top of Gillside's gently inclining 30ft-long driveway, my breath already ragged, I began to think that maybe I could have done more.

Turning right out of the driveway, we shadowed a crisp beck up the lush fell of Birkhouse Moor, where, mercifully quickly, my stride found a tolerable rhythm.

“You're doing great,” my Dad reassured, urging me across a slippery wooden walkway spanning the beck.

Once across, I took a moment to look around and steady my nerves. On either side of the stream, great swathes of green tumbled down hillsides, punctuated by occasional bursts of floral colour and patches of white where the last snows of April held their ground. Gnarled trees, nibbled bare by nameless creatures, flanked the pale pathway of stones worn smooth by countless expeditions, while at our backs, the hillside bled seamlessly into the slumbering village below, illuminated with tepid sunlight. The pure, unspoilt beauty of the moment caught my breath.

'This is why people walk,' I thought.

My pace slowed an hour in as both my thighs and lungs began to burn white hot with a fearful intensity. My Dad, unaware of the ensuing mental and physical battle below, bounded on ahead. He disappeared around an abrupt bend and I took the opportunity to grab a moment's respite. Doubled over with hands on knees and gasping like a landed fish, I saw with horror the serpentine route wind up the ever-steepening hillside. At the top, along the moor's crest, ran the stone wall through which we'd pass into the presence of the mountain.

I steeled myself, took a deep breath and, knowing that I couldn't give in before I'd seen the beast itself, began to forge onwards and ever, ever upwards.

In a final surge, I took the last few steps with strong, confident strides, then crumpled onto the ground next to my Dad who, munching a cheese sandwich and propped up by the stone wall, asked innocently, “What took you so long?”

Walking along the plateau, we searched for the Hole-in-the-Wall – a gap only a few feet wide that stuns hikers as it opens onto an unparalleled view of Helvellyn's full eastern aspect, from tarn to tip. The pear-shaped rock sits heavily, while two outstretched arętes – Striding Edge and Swirral Edge – reach out gracefully to the surrounding moors, cradling Red Tarn, an 80ft-deep pool of water excavated by an ancient glacier.

That day, a fine mist flowed from her shoulders and into the valley below, swirled by a growing breeze.

“We'll give Striding Edge a miss today,” my Dad said. “It's a bit windy. We'll head across to Swirral instead. It's more sheltered and less of a challenge, but it's not worth the risk.”

I feigned disappointment as my calves, knees and various other parts of my body cheered with relief.

“If you think it's best,” I said.

With the end in sight, a new-found vigour flooded my body. I skipped down the slope, past my Dad, into the valley's heart and began to negotiate the beginning of Swirral Edge.

For the first 100 feet or so, the scramble, though challenging, didn't slow me. Rocks loosened by my footfall fell to the valley's floor and my path was impeded at points by trickier combinations of rocks that needed careful consideration to pass, but with every step, the summit came ever closer.

I began to relax. To the enjoy the climb. To enjoy the stretch and release of my muscles as I pushed myself harder.

I began to think of myself as a hiker.

Around 40ft from the summit, a smooth-sided boulder, 3ft-high, abruptly ended my increasing joy. My Dad scrambled up and over the obstacle with ease, leaving me to gaze woefully up the mountainside after him.

It was just one boulder too much. I could go no further.

He looked back and waved, but I signalled for him to carry on without me and sat, deflated and dejected, on a small area of flat ground, taking care not to glance at the scree slope that plummeted perilously into the tarn below.

Growing increasingly depressed at the sight of a man 25 years my senior, nimbly and without hesitation, master the remainder of the mount, I turned my attention to the valley sat quietly behind.

As sunlight and shadow chased each other over the undulating peaks and troughs, I realised that I could no longer see Glenridding. Not even a hint of the tiny village. I knew that it was down there somewhere, nestled in the soft green folds of the Cumbrian landscape, but my final viewpoint revealed nothing of it.

It was at that point, unable to see our starting place, that I realised how far we'd come. More than that, I realised just how much I'd accomplished. Sure I didn't quite reach the top, but I wasn't far off and that was something to be immensely proud of.

'I've done it,' I thought. 'Against all the odds, I've done it. I, Vickie McGee, have scaled the incredible heights of Helvellyn. And, maybe more importantly, I've well and truly beaten my sister.'

Under 18 winner: Hannah Middlebrook for Oh, Shenandoah! (Virginia, USA)

Oh Shenandoah

The Shenandoah is a park that is dear to my heart, because I grew up on that land. I was raised by the trails. When I was a child my parents would take me into the woods and let me explore. They said it was character building, but all that really meant was that it was free exercise.

Sometimes we would go to waterfalls or to overlooks, but my favorite trail was the one that led to the Stony Man. The trail itself wasn’t particularly special or terribly long by any standards, but to my young mind it was an enchanting marathon.

When I asked my parents why the trail was named the Stony Man they told me that it was because, from afar, the profile of the mountain looks just like a man. I could see that, but I couldn’t accept it as the full explanation. I told them that it was probably because a man had gotten stuck in the mountain; I told them that he committed crimes against the queen of the realm, and that a fairy had probably trapped him as punishment.

I then told them that the trees would probably know the whole story, so they told me to run ahead and go ask the trees with my younger sister. However, she was too young to understand the gravity of our mission, so I took it upon myself.

It was then that I learned to scamper far in front of my parents so that I could have secret communion with the rocks and trees. I asked the trees about the story, and naturally they confirmed all of my musings. It then occurred to me that, since I had nothing else to ask, I could tell my own personal stores to the inhabitants of the trail.

The rules of the park told me that I could not take anything from the trails, and that rule I fully respected. However, I had never heard any rules about giving things to the beings that inhabited the trails already.

From then on the trees and the rocks became my confidantes. Every time we would go to the trails I would find some new tale to let them hear. I would always bring the latest gossip, and they would listen eagerly.

To this day the rocks which rest on the Stony Man Trail whisper my stories to all who walk upon them. I was never under the illusion that my secrets would remain safe; even as I confided in the stones as a child I knew my friends weren’t great at keeping secrets, but it was not for keeping that I told them.

When the babbling brook caught wind that there was a new story it would beg to hear it from the trees. The brook is vain, and cannot stand being out of the loop. Of course, when it comes to secret keeping trees are no better than rocks; they will never keep your secrets, but they will remember them until the end of time. Each ring in the trunk of a tree represents the secrets that it holds, because trees never forget.

My parents frequently told me that while on the trail it is pertinent to follow the markings on each of the trees, but I could never seem to follow the beaten path. The leaves rustled and called to me; they lived by the air from the highest altitudes, and I wanted to live by that air as well.

So I followed the wind, and I listened to nature, and I lived through each branch and each leaf. I used to think I was born a transcendentalist, but I think it was what the woods taught me.

On the way to the Stony Man there are overlooks and waterfalls; even without the markers I always came across them. To my young mind the overlooks were the most captivating sights on Earth. Just like the waterfalls they are powerful, yet delicate, but waterfalls are not as deadly. Each overlook represents the balance between human life and death, because one step into the magnificence would end it all.

The landscape is immaculate, but it is jealous; it will let no one step into its horizon and come out alive.

Waterfalls, on the other hand, are welcoming. Though the icy water feels like a rain of knives, it somehow rekindles life in its victim. When I was small I would rush under the current and come out feeling like I had been given a new life; like I had gone through the ringer and come out with a brand new perspective.

I couldn’t get any human to understand this sentiment, so I told the rocks and the trees. I didn’t need to tell the waterfall; naturally she understood.

Upon reaching the overlook of Stony Man himself, I would sit graciously upon his old withered head and ask him about his experiences. He never responded, but I think it was because he was so bitter about his life. I always reasoned that I would be too, so I never pressed the issue. However, I could always feel his energy.

As I sat upon his head, and looked out into the unknown, I focused my little being entirely on feeling his energy. I wanted nothing more than to let the nature teach me; I wanted nothing more than to be changed by the outdoors.

To me, a hike is never simply a hike. It is a time to learn; it is a time to grow and to question. Nature is able to teach everyone; in fact, she wants nothing more than to tell her stories. The trees and the rocks are bursting with secrets and tales that they have accumulated over the years; they want nothing more than someone who will listen.

The people who cannot take a day, a moment, to dive into the fresh, cold air that the mountains offer are losing out on one of the greatest experiences available to mankind.

Shortlisted: Simon Darvell for Dead Woman’s Pass (Inca Trail, Peru)

Dead Woman's Pass

It’s the second day of our trek along the ancient roadways of the Inca empire, a journey that will conclude at the UNESCO world heritage site, Dead Woman's Pass

It’s the second day of our trek along the ancient roadways of the Inca empire, a journey that will conclude at the UNESCO world heritage site, Machu Picchu. I’m walking behind a young Peruvian porter who tells me to call him Sammy. His movements are light-footed and rapid; they remind of those of a small bird. He's burdened by a thirty kilogram backpack that is as long as he is tall, yet I'm struggling to match his pace. It’s early and it’s cold. The alpaca gloves I’m wearing retain no warmth. Every breath sends a ghostly pall out in front of me. We’re walking through a forest that is alive with sounds of nature waking: branches cracking in the changing temperatures, birds singing, dew falling onto lower leaves. When we take a twist in the path, I can hear a powerful river nearby, shrouded by the trees. The porters and trekkers are silent, almost reverentially so. chocolate bars and Gatorade. They converse with Sammy and the other porters in Quechua, the native tongue of the Incas.

The rising sun is obscured by a mountain. The mountainside we are about to climb up is illuminated the colour of gold. We'll be ascending into warmth. Refreshed, the porters press coco leaves into rectangles and put them in their mouths. They brace themselves and hoist their loads onto their backs. I watch them leave and wait for my group. The cold defeats my resolve; I decide to break ranks and keep moving.
 
The slabs, laid centuries before by the Incas, are hard work. A foot high and deep, you don't step onto the next ledge, you push your body onto it with power through your entire lower body. That this pathway has been created here, laid by man in this remote, arduous place, seems implausible, impossible.

We leave the canopy and I see Warmiwańusca, or Dead Women's Pass, so called because from the valley floor where we camped the night before the mountain ridge resembles the contours of a supine woman. The sinewy staircase rises to her breast. I soon overheat in the sunlight and have to remove a few layers. The high altitude and the rising temperatures make the trek tougher. My lungs feel as though they are inflating to the size of tennis balls.

Every time I pause to catch my breath the astonishing scenery rejuvenates me. Seeing the pass above me, perhaps thirty minutes away, renews my enthusiasm for the challenge. We continue upward; all I see are Sammy's bulging calves in front of me. I try walking with his backpack. After five minutes my chest feels like it is being compressed inward. My back muscles tire quickly. I happily relinquish the backpack to Sammy.

Sammy is nineteen, five years my junior. Shorter, skinnier, he’s cheerful company, a young man completely devoid of cynicism. He pulls the backpack on and keeps moving. It's the fourth time he's trekked to Machu Picchu. His dream is to become a farmer. He looks faraway the youngest of the porters. I ask him how old the rest of the men are. He tells me most of them are in their thirties. Their faces, weathered and wrinkled, look like the faces of men who should be settling into retirement, not completing a trek that leaves physically fit travellers gasping and aching. Yet they’re bounding past me, up the steep slope.

After forty minutes we reach Warmiwańusca, the highest point of our four-day trek at 4,215 metres above sea level. The reward is one of the most stupendous views I'll ever see. Near me, a middle-aged man stands alone before the void, teary-eyed. Imbued with energy, I climb up onto the dead lady's nipple. Mountain ranges crisscross for miles, their snow-capped peaks level with wisps of chalk-white cloud. Great crevices in the mountainsides are cast in shadow, and the rest of the rock face seems to have the colour and texture of green velvet. And above is the sheer magnitude of the sky, an enormous blue dome encompassing the world.

A flow of porters reach the crest. A few stop to rest and snack, but many continue straight over and start jogging down the steps that descend onto a pathway back in time. They are machine-like; you'd think we had risen 1,000 metres this morning on an escalator. Sammy is eating a snack in the company of other porters amongst bracken on the mountain side. He gives me a thumbs up. Other trekkers reach the top. Some ignore the boundless views on either side and collapse in relief as their exertions are momentarily suspended. Others walk to other side of the ridge and look at the expanse in front of them. Their expressions are proud and overawed. 

After being dwarfed by these monoliths, it’s a profound moment to stand atop them, a transitory and finite human, and enjoy the view of the Gods. Steadily our group gathers at the top. Once the entire group has peaked and photographs have been taken, we begin the descent.

We start on the winding path down. Descending is less physically exhausting that the upward walking in the morning, but more daunting. Dropping from one ledge onto the next jars the knees and ankles. Some of the slabs are loose in the soft earth underneath, and a misplaced step could result in a twisted ankle. Considering we’re a two-day trek from any meaningful form of civilisation, getting injured isn’t an option.

After the exhilarating views from Warmiwańusca, everything below is far more serene. The wildlife on this side of the mountain is more colourful and varied. The pathway is flanked by flowering bushes and sprouting saplings. Butterflies flutter amongst the flowers. A mockingbird travels between trees. Faraway to our left a thin waterfall careens silently down the mountainside. Soon the mountains whose peaks we had been roughly level with are towering above us once again, stalwart and infinite in their grandness. Even though the tourists have slowed down, we regularly hear the call “Porters!”, and the tough, stocky men come jogging past, the great weights on their backs no impediment to their speed or agility. It’s utterly humbling when we reach our campsite and they have prepared the tents, the lunch and are waiting for us to refuel and recover before they can do the same.

Our campsite is situated in a bowl at the base of the mountains. After completing our walking for the day, trainers are hastily removed and water is drunk in large gulps.

As daylight wanes there is little to do but prepare for the cold night and a few hours of restorative sleep. We have been briefed that we will be woken at half-past five with a cup of coca tea. We will trek to the peak of the mountain that is above us, the pathway of which is almost hidden beneath the trees, a faint meandering white line leading through the jungle-covered mountainside to another seat on top of the world.

Shortlisted: Abigail Latham for Crevasses and Ice Caves with washes of pinks and oranges. The streets were deserted apart from a few intrepid travellers who were heading towards the Franz Joseph glacier store. It was from here that our adventure began. Backpackers gathered eagerly, waiting for an experience of a lifetime. Kit was handed out, tried on, adjusted and packed up, along with personal belongings. Jackets, boots, crampons, all carrying the Franz Josef logo, were passed around with excitement and apprehension. On the advice of a guide I reluctantly donned my shorts, worrying slightly about frostbite.

Apparently jeans can easily become water logged and stick to your legs, making you more likely to freeze.

Franz Joseph is a picturesque little township on the west coast of New Zealand’s south island. Backpackers flock there to experience a day of hiking on the glacier. Snowmelt runs off the glacier, creating a cloudy blue river, which trundles past the town. The glacier, named after Franz Joseph I emperor of Austria in 1865 is 12km long. It is located in the Westland Tai Poutini National Park amid lush temperate rainforest.

We all boarded the red glacier guide bus, which took the winding roads to the beginning of the trek. Excitement ran through the group as we were given an initial briefing by Iain who would be our guide for the day.

We tramped through the lush New Zealand rainforest. Palm trees and ferns overhung the muddy track. Native birds such as fantails and robins flitted along beside us, singing their happy songs. Somewhere in the distance a babbling stream could be heard. On emerging from the forest we crossed the shingled wasteland to the foot of the glacier. The stones appeared to be speckled with gold dust which glittered as the sun’s rays caught them.  Water ran off the glacier in cascades and flowed to the main river, churning up silt as it went. The mass of ice towered above us, shimmering blue in the morning sunlight. Small groups of hikers traversed the ice, like ants in the distance.

The group gathered at a sign which warned people not to climb on the ice without a guide. A single red rope barred our entry; horror stories about individuals who had ignored the warnings circulated. People took photos. We waited for further instructions, staring up at the glacier in awe.

After being split into smaller groups we crossed the threshold and tramped onto the glacier, a mixture of grit and ice crunched beneath our boots. We trundled on, pausing to catch our breath as the slope got steeper and steeper. Iain advised us to put on our crampons. Knots were tied and retied; tight enough to hold without cutting off the circulation. Then apprehensively we stamped our feet, testing each step, checking that our boots gripped the ice.

For the rest of the day we explored tunnels, crevasses and ice caves. The glacial landscape changes almost daily with the glacier’s unusually fast flow. There was a huge gap in the ice, where the glacier had cracked and shifted slightly, making a crevice for us to explore. Inside the ice was dense; the giant blue sides loomed above us, creating a shadowy pocket. The air was freezing, our breath turned to mist and the blueness of the ice was reflected in our faces. We all piled into the small space, squeezed around corners and climbed over chunks of broken ice. I was wearing a rucksack on my back; the red glacier guides bum bag on my front, contained my lunch. We had come to the narrowest part of the tunnel. My cargo doubled my size, making me momentarily stuck between the icy walls.                

“Come on, you can get through there....... you’re as skinny as!”  Iain shouted, using the New Zealand slang.

I edged my way further into the tunnel. Then breathed in and slowly, inch by inch, squeezed myself through the narrow gap. My rucksack scrapped against the wall, my bum bag was flattened against my stomach. At lunchtime I found that my banana was squashed all over my camera.

As we traversed the ice, Iain told us a Maori legend about the glacier. “The Maori name for the glacier is Ka Roimata o Hinehukatere” he said, enthusiastically waving his arms in the air.

“It means the tears of Hinehukatere. Hinehukatere was a local girl who loved to climb in the mountains.  One day she persuaded her lover Wawe to climb with her. However, Wawe wasn’t a very experienced climber.”

He paused for effect.

“Wawe happily accompanied her, until an avalanche dramatically swept him from the peaks to his death! Hinehukatere was so broken hearted that she sat on the mountaintop and cried for days. Her tears flowed down the mountain side and froze to form the glacier.”

Iain swung his pickaxe in an arc above his head and expertly cut steps into the ice. Having ascended the icy steps, we had to shuffle down a wall of ice. By taking tiny baby steps and hanging onto the knotted rope which dangled from the ice face, I was able to make it to the bottom in one piece.  We were then faced with another challenge- an ice tunnel. It was Just over a meter long; but was barely wide enough to lie down in. A rope was passed through the tunnel, and one at a time we inched our bodies into the dark hole below.  I clutched the rope, regretting wearing fingerless mittens; the ends of my fingers had started to go blue with cold. Steadily Iain yanked at the rope. I began to slide, claustrophobically, the ice above just inches from my nose. As I slide, my jacket rose up at the back, exposing my skin to the freezing ice. I held my breath, my hands began to get rope burn; after what seemed like ages I was pulled free. Everyone cheered as I whizzed down the slope laughing.

Shortlisted: Arpa Mukhopadhyay for Matheran: a Forest on a Hilltop (India)

Matheran: A forest on the hilltop

‘Trot trot’ went Black Berry, the beautiful black horse fit with an equally beautiful handcrafted saddle. His master, the unsmiling and stubborn Prabhakar bhau was treading his weary way by Black Berry’s side. The man mounted atop was Rahul, my poor teammate who was now a constant victim of bhau’s tirade (in fluent Marathi, which none of us really understood). It was Rahul’s first attempt at horseback riding and going by his flushed face, it seemed unlikely that he would go the equestrian way again!

We were 800 m above sea level and 100 km away from the city of Mumbai in Maharashtra. We were in ‘Matheran’, literally translated as ‘Forest on the hilltop’, and the event was our first office outing, and for me, the first encounter with the word ‘trekking’.

Only a couple of days back, I was in the office, reclining in my chair, eyes on monitor, and hands almost involuntarily typing out some C-sharp code. Yes, I live the exceedingly sedentary lifestyle of an Indian IT professional and even getting up for a cup of coffee is sometimes very taxing for me. The talk of an office outing popped up, and one of us suggested it’s about time we indulged in some real, physical activity. A little research and then a poll brought ‘Matheran’ in picture, and here we were – on the beautiful Sahyadris, with colorful birds chirping all around and dense Jambol forests surrounding us. We had finally reached the ‘smallest hill station in India’ and I had heard it right, we were right in the arms of Mother Nature!

It was a chilly winter morning even in a city like Mumbai (where the winds just refuse to blow). We started our bus journey at 5 am from Borivali. We had to cover a good amount of distance, some 80 km in the fog and it took us 3 hours to reach Neral. Of course we had halted mid-way for a quick vada pav breakfast in Panvel, which took up some time.

Neral is where the journey to Matheran starts. Once there, you have two options: take a toy train (You need to buy tickets in advance. Only a couple of trains ply in the morning between Neral and Matheran and there are only 35 seats in the general compartment) or take a local automobile to Dasturi Naka, and then go walking. Ours was an impromptu trip and we never had the luxury of choosing option 1. But allow me tell you a little about the very famous, century-old, UNESCO heritage 2-feet narrow gauge railroad on which these little beauties run. India has only 4 primary narrow gauge railways, of which the one at Darjeeling is the oldest. Matheran, they say, is a close second. It was built in 1907 by Sir Adamjee Peerbhoy for easy accessibility. The toy train covers 21km through green slopes, dangerous mountain curves and thick forests, completing its journey in a little over 2 hours. We took local cabs to reach Dasturi Naka, which is about 3.5 km walking distance from the main city. Trekking, horseback riding and carts are the only means of conveyance that point onwards, and this time, all of us chose Option 1!

Trekking in Matheran would possibly remain one of my most beautiful experiences in life. Coming from the hustle-bustle, the population and the pollution of Mumbai, this beautiful, serene atmosphere was catching up with us. It was as though we had travelled back in time to the pre-independence era where all we had were our feet and the animals to carry us. Roads in Matheran are neither metalled, nor concrete but are made of primitive red laterite soil. Matheran has been declared an ‘eco-sensitive’ region by the Union Environment Ministry and no automobiles are allowed. It is perhaps the only hill station in India where this kind of a blanket motor ban exists.

Walking on railway tracks was something I had always wanted to do as a kid, and it was my lucky day! We trod along the narrow gauge for two reasons – one, the mud road had too many monkeys, and two, the railroad was supposed to cover the least distance. One hour and fifteen minutes later, we had reached the railway station; glad to see the toy train still toying with the idea of not reaching anytime soon!

It took us another fifteen minutes to reach the main bazaar area. We had lunch at a local restaurant, and then went to the market. The Chikki and fudge that I tried in the Matheran market were the best I had had in life. The females of the group got busy buying cane and leather articles, like belts, bags and Kolhapuri chappals of course. The males, meanwhile discussed with the locals what our next course of action should be. Matheran, which covers only 8 sq. km in the Sahyadri ranges, and has a 6000 odd population, apparently has 33 lookout-points. Lookout-points are points from where you get a panoramic view of the peaks of Western Ghats as well as the pastoral plains. We shortlisted the most important points and started out, most of us by foot and a few tired ones on horseback. It was at this juncture that Rahul spotted Black Berry and fell in love with the animal, not knowing what hostilities lay ahead. Prabhakar bhau never really understood Rahul’s English and why he would just not kick the horse and Rahul would not understand why the mighty creature would start galloping without his wanting it to!

We reached the first viewpoint, Lord’s point, the view from which left us dumbfounded. We never felt so close to nature before. A few clicks later we were at the scenic Charlotte Lake, the most popular picnic spot in Matheran and prime source of drinking water in the region. We were busy admiring its beauty and a zealous monkey snatched my coke bottle. Clearly it was bored of drinking water from the lake and needed a change of taste! The Echo Point and the Lousia Point were situated nearby and we visited these points one after the other. We tried yelling our names out at the Echo point, but in vain. Either we were really tired, or they needed to change the name. All ‘points’ make for mesmerizing vistas of the Sahyadris and the beautiful green valley. It was however our valley crossing on the ropeway from Echo point to Lousia point that stole the show! I was very apprehensive about crossing the valley but after enormous goading from my teammates, I ventured into something I had never thought I could! I had never experienced that thrill before, and I was beginning to understand what living life to the fullest meant!

It was dark already, and we trudged our way back to Dasturi naka. Now the same course of travel would follow. Rahul finally managed to befriend Prabhakar bhau, and we clicked them smiling. I managed to overcome my biggest fear, and we had all trekked an incredible distance, and were not even tired! I glanced back longingly at the forest and then took a step in the other direction, the direction of the concrete jungle!

Shortlisted: Eithne Nightingale for My White Lady (Port of Spain, Trinidad)

My White Lady

The sky was punctuated with shooting stars, and clear constellations shed enough light to guide us into down town Port of Spain. It was 2 am and Simon and I were dressed in bright yellow t-shirts and trousers with holes cut out of the back, shoulders and knees. A yellow headscarf covered my long blonde hair. This was our makeshift costume for Jouvay (from the French jour ouvert, meaning ‘opening day’) that is held in the early hours of the Monday before Ash Wednesday. It’s the annual celebration of emancipation from slavery in Trinidad, and the first event of Carnival.

There were no mini-taxis at this hour, just tributaries of people converging on one point. The streets widened and dusky blue and green gingerbread houses with latticed verandas lined the boulevards.  Tall palm trees held up our star-studded canopy and pink oleanders teased our nostrils. This suburban fairy tale was suddenly disrupted by the deep throbbing of soca music pouring out of loud speakers, balanced on slow moving trucks. There were no police and no sign of an organised route. Just anarchic processions of people following their respective trucks.

Glowing black skins were coated in paint, tar or mud. Some of the figures had chalk-white faces and others dragged chains along the street. Horned figures, coated in cobalt blue paint with red blood dripping from their mouths, stabbed pitchforks into the air  – the infamous blue devils. We started to shuffle to the drumming, edging forward inch by inch. Even in the dark, I knew we were conspicuous. Then the crowd crushed in on us and we were surrounded by men who daubed our white faces, chests and arms with thick, black paint.

A large swig from Simon’s bottle of rum and we merged into the swaying crowd, barely moving except for a gentle rotation of our hips. Despite the rousing beat of the music we kept our flailing limbs in check. “Cool control, cool control,” we murmured under our breath, holding each other tight. It was happening. We were ‘wining’ and ‘chipping, ’ losing ourselves. No longer marked out by race, age or colour.  At one with anarchy, at one with cool. 

There was a thrust from behind. Black crotch approaches white bum; black hands clasp white thighs; black dreadlocks fondle white breasts.  I was severed from Simon and lowered, limbo like, between jerks and intermittent smooth rotations to the escalating rhythm of African drums. I was not just ‘liming’ but ‘wining.’ Losing my Jouvay virginity. This was fun.

Then my faceless, fleeting companion jerked away and took up with a younger, blacker version. A space opened up around them. Black crotch against black bum, black hands against black thighs. Both bend back, thrust and lower in unison. Intimate strangers  playing to the crowd. No wonder the Pentecostals and Spiritual Baptists lock up their daughters and urge repentance for the number of post-Carnival babies. 

I panicked. Simon was no longer in view. There was a push from behind, shouts of resistance and people surged forward.  The throbbing crowd was no longer a novelty, Jouvay no longer an exotic adventure. A gang of youths stared at me. Fantasy and reality played havoc with my mind. Every movement was a potential knife attack; every bulging pocket held a gun and I froze at the imagined touch of a thousand knees, groins and hands molesting me.

The crowd surged forward again and I felt something hard thrust into the small of my back. Rigid with fear, I was unsure if I would come out of Jouvay dead or alive.  Then the pressure of the crowd eased. There was someone or something pushing against the flow. A tall swirling African headdress appeared above a sea of heads and came bobbing towards me, crying out in a pronounced Trini accent, “Hello, my white lady.  Hello, my white lady.”

The commotion caused by this spectacular entrance broke up the crowd. A Nubian queen veered towards me, keeping to the rhythm of the beat and cradling me in her arms. She mocked and emasculated the youths in front of a staggered and staggering crowd.

“Boys move from here eh! Who you coming to wine on with them thin feet? Go an eat a bake ‘n shark and come back.”

The crowd chuckled as my rescuer took my arm and guided me to safety.

“Bumblebee, bumblebee,” she shrieked, pointing at my black-streaked yellow outfit, face and arms. We laughed and held each other close, losing ourselves in the sound of soca, the pounding drums and the ascending dawn. No more limbo, no more fear. Just two women, one black, one white, arm in arm, jumping up and down in, “de middle of de road in de middle of de night.” Simon could wait.

Shortlisted: Silja Swaby for Hell’s Bells (Catbells, Lake District, UK)

Hell’s Bells

‘Julia! Julia Bradbury! Wait!’ I dashed across the refreshment marquee dodging chairs and the wax jackets obstructing me. Julia, natty in country chic, her brown leather jacket and casual jeans, her hair salon smooth, her skin flawless and tanned. A horse trials official in earrings and tweed, was offering her drinks from the coffee machine. The woman, who’d seen me, whispered something to her.  

‘It’s OK,’ said Julia raising her hand. ‘Can I help?’

‘Yes,’ I gasped. ‘My boyfriend has booked a weekend in The Lakes. And we’ve watched you on telly, the series you did, on Wainwright and walking, the crags and the peaks. I’m not sporty, outdoorsy or anything like and we’ve not been together long and…’ I lowered my voice. ‘He is younger than me.’

Her easy smile broadened.

‘Is there a walk we could easily do? Not remote or too steep,’ I continued.

She pressed my arm. ‘Catbells.’

‘What bells?’ I said.

‘Catbells. But go on a day when the weather is fine. The view will be worth it.’

Catbells sounded friendly, and suitably sized, not like brutish Helvellyn, Scafell or Skiddaw.

‘Thank you,’ I said, as the woman stepped in with whispers for Julia – important no doubt. She lifted the flap and guided her out. I took the flap, held it as Julia disappeared amongst Barbours and Mustos.

The day of the walk was luminous, clear. The parking space waiting for us to pull in, I took as a sign that my luck would hold.

With my hiking boots fastened, I stood on the path and scanned the gradient cautiously. Julia’s definition of easy didn’t match mine, but coming from Somerset, a hill is a climb. The top was in view: something to aim for. How hard could it be?

I slammed the car door as a couple passed by, some five, maybe ten, years older than me. He, wavy-haired, a lean Burt Lancaster; she with a Gloria Hunniford look, but her ample proportions in pink t-shirt, beige pedal pushers and a bold panty line. But for the walking poles, I’d have put them down for trolley pushing round a supermarket.

‘Ready?’ he asked me.

‘You bet,’ I replied. ‘Let’s make a start.’

I struck out, light of step, confidence high. The gradient rose and then steepened some more. We passed Burt and Gloria, I nodded hello keeping my smug opinions to myself.

It wasn’t long before my thighs complained. Calm breathing was helpful, as was placing my feet. It sustained me - for a further 100 metres. It was hard to ignore the pain messages firing in my brain. Mind over matter, I thought. I mind and this matters.

‘You want a drink?’ he asked.

I paused for a moment and glanced down the slope. Gloria followed, Burt marching behind. She’d got in her stride and was gaining ground.

‘No,’ I said firmly stomping up the path. ‘I’m fine really.’

I wasn’t.

Every cell in my body insisted on ceasing. My lungs were stretched beyond reason. Nor did red blotches enhance my complexion, and my underarm sweat rings were unmissable – even from space.

I kept glancing back. Gloria pounded. I must stay ahead. The top wasn’t far. I would not give up.  

My heart pounded harder and my leg muscles stung.

A little further; keep going.

You…are…almost…THERE!

When the ground levelled out, I veered right and then left. I crumpled as graciously as I could, comforted by my private success.

‘We’ll rest here for a while,’ he said handing me things: a bottle of water and a Snickers.

I sucked on soft chocolate. Gloria rose over the brow, Burt right behind her. I admired her pluck as she lowered her frame, but I’d never concede when so much was at stake.

Basking in victory, I took in the view. Julia’s judgement was spot on. Yes it was tough, but so worth it.

‘You ready?’ he asked startling me.

‘For what?’ I replied, thinking pub lunch, a boat trip, a tour of the town.

‘For the summit.’ He pointed up at another ascent, like the one I’d just hauled myself up.

‘The summit? You mean it?’ I choked on the words.

‘You OK?’

The walk, my new boyfriend and all self esteem faded away. Then Burt handed Gloria her poles. Fuelled into action, I pulled my weak form off the ground. Catbells? Hell’s bells more like. If I ever saw that Julia Bradbury again, I’d dash across the refreshment marquee and punch her up the bracket.

We set off, my heart pounding fit to bust, my legs demanding to be hacked off at the pelvis with a blunt axe. My glances back were no comfort. Gloria was never far behind. I knew I had to dig deeper to beat her.

With tunnel vision I fixated on the summit, and plodded up and up, telling myself, mantra-like, it isn’t receding.

My inner dialogue cast time aside until that glorious moment when the summit actually seemed achievable.

A little further; keep going.

You…are…almost…

THERE!

I staggered over the open terrain looking for somewhere to consign my remains. I collapsed and lay like a salmon in shallows, lactic, limp, spent. I stared up at the sky, uncaring of my disarray, what anyone thought of me and eternally grateful I didn’t have to move.

A comforting hand on my arm brought me back. He leaned over me and smiled. ‘Well done! What do you think of the view?’

I propped myself on his broad back, scanned the long slopes, the languid lake before me, the sun tinted pikes. Elation and a sparkle of achievement glowed within me. I stretched out, contented.

I shouldn’t have been surprised when Gloria came into view, followed closely by Burt, but truth was I’d forgotten all about her. She and Burt strode past me and like seasoned explorers, struck out over the lengthened plateau onto the next peak.

But my triumph was tinged with guilt: Julia. Of course I wouldn’t dash across the refreshment marquee and punch her up the bracket. Quite the opposite. I’d press her arm and say, ‘Hey, remember me? The boyfriend? Catbells? You were spot on. Where next?’

And her easy smile would broaden.

Shortlisted: Christopher Suckling for Inverie to Glenfinnan (Knoydart Peninsula, Scotland, UK)

Inverie to Glenfinnan

15th - 17th April 2011

It is sometimes difficult to know exactly when or where a journey starts, like an idea, or a dream. Was it that first morning, when Euan stretched out his hand and helped me across the wobbly board to the quayside - no joking in his eyes for once? Was it earlier than that, weeks earlier, when I spread the OS map out on the living room floor? Cars passing on King’s Avenue outside. I could hear it had been raining. I ran my finger over the route at a constant speed, traversing mountain and marsh as easily as any gull or cloud. Or was it long, long before that, when I was only a child, when Mum and Dad would take Kate and I to the Peaks? Every Saturday it seemed: Lathkill Dale, Rushup Edge, Ladybower Reservoir. I would complain in the car, but once I had my boots on and was out on the path, I would run along, searching for adventure or a good stick. 

Whatever the moment, I first realised it had started a mile on from the quayside at Inverie where the surf foamed beneath a row of squat white buildings. We stopped by a gate, leaned our packs against it and watched the sheep whilst we relieved ourselves through the fence, steaming and giggling. Afterwards, we took off the extra layers that we had thought would be necessary when we kitted up that morning in Mallaig. I remembered something Dad had once told me and relayed it to my friends - such was my personality, perhaps even my role. He had told me that cowboys used to carry a saddlebag full of things which they called ‘possibles.’ These were individual collections of odds and pieces that they thought might come in handy. I felt the weight of my pack against my collar bone and wondered whether we had chosen our possibles ingeniously or ingenuously. Euan offered me a mint.

Apart from myself, there was Euan and Jamie. We had trained as teachers together but knew each other as people not professionals - friends, not colleagues. 

Jamie had initiated things: he had booked two tickets on the Caledonian Sleeper months before, unable to resist a bargain, and offered me the spare berth. Euan wanted in, booked a flight to Glasgow and suggested Knoydart for our hike. I did some research, knowing nothing of the West Coast that wasn’t in Kidnapped and planned a route. We would walk from Inverie to Glenfinnan and it would take three days. If the journey had a purpose, it was understood but not articulated. Some people call it ‘getting away’ but that doesn’t quite do justice to the sense of going somewhere and being somewhere that is unavoidable. Maybe our mission was the same as Darwin’s when he boarded the Beagle: to harvest experience and understanding from the landscape. I was there to collect stories, perspective and perhaps relief and to bring them home for posterity.

Now, my mind is full of memories of our trip, like a drawer of muddled jumpers; however, there is not time to speak of them all so I will pull out the part of the journey I most often return to in my mind: our arrival at Sourlies bothy. 

Around four o’clock on the first day, we reached a rope bridge and an accompanying sign that read, “WARNING. Bridge in dangerous condition - users do so at own risk.” Looking back, I wonder who had left such a sign out in the wild. Who could you hold responsible for any misfortune you suffered there other than yourself or your god? Nevertheless, it offered us some boisterous excitement. We had just completed our first small ascent and descent with packs and were quietly alarmed by how much of a strain it was, gazing in wonder at the lumpy head of tomorrow’s monolithic goal, Sgurr Na Ciche. 

Neither the mountain nor the bridge though are the favourite landscape of my memory. No, this lay beyond the bridge and beneath the mountain. 

It is difficult to describe if you have never seen anything like it. The land was in pieces, each one no bigger than a bath tub, all of them irregular in shape and spongey underfoot. Between each piece of land was a gap, none wider than a good stride, in the bottom of which could be often be found mud, silt or a stream; however, sometimes we discovered the carcass of a sheep, rubbish, driftwood and on one occasion a deflated football, which we thumped around for a while. We conjectured that it had been formed by the tidal loch that we could see half a mile ahead of us and the mountain streams that carved wrinkles into the walls of the valley. As we approached Loch Nevis, we saw that it obtruded up to our right and the ground underfoot was covered by a thin film of water, which encouraged tiny yellow flowers and great reeds to grow around us and left Euan and I praising our gaiters and laughing cruelly at tiptoeing Jamie’s lack thereof.

A cluster of native deer had flanked us on both sides as we approached them, splitting the herd between the hillside and the edge of the loch. Suddenly, the loch deer kicked and ran, trying to link up with the proud stag on the higher ground. They seemed to be running on water. We said nothing. Our hands did not stray to our cameras. This was for us alone: a photo wouldn’t do it justice and the experience bound us together.

We followed the deer to Sourlies bothy, where we pitched our tents by the edge of the loch. It was quite safe: the tide was in. I found a large shell, white like chalk, the size of my palm, which now lives on the windowsill at home with a rock in the shape of a rabbit’s head, two feathers and a fossil.

Cloud came up the valley, bringing the gloom with it whilst we sat on a rudimentary bench under the eaves of the bothy roof, listening to light rain running down the corrugated iron and dripping onto our perfect positioned toecaps, and watching the tide retreat. I can’t remember what we talked about, Jamie’s choice of rations perhaps, the deer, tomorrow’s ominous prospect but we were soon foraging for mussels, competing against one another for quantity and size. Whoever won, no matter, we all enjoyed our catch back under the eaves of the bothy. We laughed at ourselves. Who would have predicted this? Euan predicted a bad stomach the next day but he was wrong.

Later, after brushing my teeth in a stream under the shadow of the great Monro, anxious about tomorrow’s assent, I came face to face with the stag from the hillside, grazing behind the bothy. You might expect him to have noticed me and ran but I was either invisible or insignificant in his eyes. He did not look at me once. He would not remember me as I often do him, my heart lifting and calm descending. 

The loch, the low cloud and my journey continued beyond the stag, stretching out into an impenetrable blur.

First Story winner: Louis Krommenhoek for Louis’ Story

Louis's Story

It was a short walk, but one full of excitement and anxiety. In fact it’s not really a walk. For me it’s a skip, for some a skip, and others more of a stroll, but that is irrelevant. The point is, is that through the eyes of a five year old going to meet Father Christmas is a very personal experience, especially when its in your own home. I flicked the light switch, jumped out of bed and crept towards the door. I gripped the cold handle and slowly twisted it. I stepped out into the corridor. The floor was to cold so I sprinted towards the stairs and bounded down them in one elegant leap. It was actually more like lots of clumsy hops but in my mind it was beautiful.

I felt a mix of relief and more excitement when the souls of my feet hit the ground floor with little more than a hushed thud. I crept towards the living room door. The tension was unbearable. I dragged my fingers lightly across the wallpaper avoiding the dancing fairy lights streaking across the wall. My fingers stopped on the door. Whispers filtered through the cracks at the bottom of the door. I gently pushed and with a calm click the door opened. I hid behind the sofa and listened. It was mum and dad, they where eating Santa's biscuits and whisky. My dad said with a full mouth "when will he learn that Santa doesn't exist!" My heart sank the tears began to form in my eyes. I tore up the stairs, that had minutes ago been filled with such joy, and ran into my room. I jumped into the now cold bed, and whipped my eyes. To my astonishment there sat behind my bed was a sack of red and blue glittery presents, and I was sure I could hear the hushed sound of bells ringing out across a sleeping London.

First Story runner up: Suedi Mohamed for A Walk Through the Forest

A Walk Through the Forest

My grey boots crushes the big yellow greenish leaf that had fallen from the branch of a tree.  The day is so beautiful I can almost feel it.  I can smell and hear everything this forest possesses, like the faint wind ruffling the hairs on my bare arm and the same breeze that whistles through my ear.  I can sense the rich aroma of the dirt beneath my feet.

As the autumn wind blows through my hair, it bends down and kisses my skin so fair and of the place no one knows.  This home inside my soul is none other than my heart.  The smell of the rain fresh in the air, it tickles my senses without a care.  I feel like nothing can bring me down from this heaven I have found.  This world keeps me safe and sound.  The flowers die in autumn but blooms throughout the summer night, until they become whole and bright.

Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t realise that I am lying on top of leaves upon the forest floor.  For a second I think the beat of my heart stops and then starts again.  I flanked my eyes open.  Unexpectedly a handsome man stands there beside me, gazing at me with his deep autumn eyes.  Suddenly, my whole world explodes into tiny pieces.  Awkwardly, he reaches his hand out to help me up.  As soon as I take his hand, a strong gust rushes over us.  Our faces are so close, close enough to kiss.  But I take a step back, waiting for him to let go of my hand.  Yet I am still yearning for him to come closer.

“Could you let go, please,” I said.

He releases me as if he didn’t quite understand what was happening.

“Sorry, how did you get here?” he says.

I slam my eyes shut just to check if this is a dream.  I open them again and he isn’t there.

I walk back home thinking about his autumn eyes.

And finally, First Story’s Finn Weldin’s t’s my turn today. My turn to walk. I’ve been here for years. So long in fact, I can’t remember what I did to end up here. I don’t even have a name any more; it’s been forgotten over time. The guards don’t care who I am, and I don’t think I know either. It’s been too long. Finally, my torment will end.

While I wait for an escort I?m surrounded by bars, confining me to this small, dank, dark and disturbingly wet room. I hear the sounds of shouting, clanging on bars, and cheers to others who are taking the walk I too am about to face.

The door opens. I raise my head to see the bright blue uniform of a guard glaring down at me. It?s time. I stand up, almost frightened, and shakily leave the cell. The cheers rise even higher as I step out. Dozens of them, all awaiting the same fate, all saying the same thing: knock ?em dead! Good luck, see you there, bla de blah de blah. I drown out their meaningless farewells, and concentrate on one thing, the door at the end of the hall.

This is where I’m walking to. This white door has a yellow sign indicating that the other side of it isn’t as ‘friendly’ as the side I’m on right now. As I get closer to the door, the sounds dissipate. It’s just me in the world right now. The door opens, I step inside.

It’s a small room. There’s a shelf containing beakers and glasses. There are tables, sinks and a bed in the middle. For the last room I would ever enter, it was quite boring. It was what was inside each beaker that was important. I lie down. A man wearing fully white clothing steps in, and pours some of the contents of the beaker into a small syringe. He walks over. He tells me what is going to happen. I’m a convicted criminal, not a fiveyear-old. I know what’s going to happen. Just do it. Do it already! I feel a prick in my arm. I feel a numb sensation spread across my entire body. The room begins to darken. Here we go. The room is completely black. A strange feeling overcomes me, like breathing out after holding your breath for a while. As I left, I smiled. It’s finally over.