Tales from the middle of nowhere
A wet weekend on Dartmoor brought us up close to the edge, and we loved it - eventually
It was the latest Way of the Runner retreat with Damian Hall this weekend. In fact, it only ended this very morning and I’m happily exhausted, but with very little writing energy left in my being. So rather than give you the full blow by blow account of what was a mightily enjoyable weekend, let me take you briefly to the very heart of the most intense moment, about 10 miles into our long Sunday run. Our experienced guide, Colin, had taken a slower group back to the house earlier than planned as they were getting cold and needing to get back. The full route seemed fairly straightforward on the map, and Damian was a freshly qualified mountain leader, so I offered to take the main group, with Damian's help, around the full loop. It was all going so well, so wonderfully, until it wasn’t …
THERE was a moment when my mind went blank and nothing made sense. I was standing in the middle of a misty Dartmoor, high tufts of grass in every direction, the rain driving into our faces and no sign of a path anywhere. Twelve shivering people in running shorts and soaked jackets looked at me with rising concern. Were we lost?
Technically, we weren’t lost. I knew where we were, and I knew the direction we needed to go to get back to our cosy retreat. I just couldn’t find the path, and these tufts of grass were proving tricky to move over. The only direction in which the ground looked vaguely runnable was down towards the river - not quite the way we were supposed to be going.
Damian stood there looking chirpy. Chirpy, yet calm. (He later said he thought I seemed calm - possibly too calm, he said.) I asked him what he thought. Damian had just that week passed his mountain leader qualification and he looked at his map. We could get back by following the river, but we had no idea what the terrain would be like further on that way. It could be impassable, or more endless tufts of long grass.
I looked at the OS map on my phone again. It said we were on the path. But I couldn’t see it. My head was spinning.
“People are getting cold,” said Damian. “The important thing is to get moving. I think the river is the best option.” OK, we took a chance and started running, trotting, wading through streams, stumbling down mud banks. But it was passable, just about, and as we ran on, people started to warm up. Then eventually the rain stopped, we crested a hill, and there down below was our lodgings. What a joy to behold.
After warm showers, and hot soup and hearty bread for lunch, everyone chatted excitedly about our morning escapade. It had been wild out there. Many of the group - though not all - had never run in such conditions or across such terrain. At the time they had looked cold, exhausted, concerned. But now they were almost deliriously chatty with relief and the happiness to be back in the warm.
We had pushed the edge of the comfort zone, and we had all lived a little bit more vividly in the process.
That’s part of the joy of wild running. It’s the kind of running I never envisioned back in my road running days. It's running where you’re often walking. Running where you have to wade through streams. Running where you look at maps. Running where your time is irrelevant, where the adventure, where being out in nature, buffeted by the wind and rain, is what it’s all about.
“It takes a certain type of person to enjoy this,” said one of the guests as we ran. “If I told most of my friends what I was doing for my weekend away, they would be totally confused. But I love it.”
Yeah, I love it too. Maybe "running" isn't the right word. "Off-trail adventuring" might be better? But whatever you call it, it's a barrel of fun. Type-2 fun. Maybe even type-3, if that's a thing? I don't know.
All I know is that I'll be back. For now, I'm off for a well earned nap.