Equipment is a very important thing in our lives. We know that it can keep us warm, dry, safe and sound. But never before the Scotland 2000 Venture Expedition has the topic been used as a source of argument/chat or discussion.
It began with the realisation that, somehow, the Field and Trek catalogue had found it's way into my voluminous bag and was now joining us on the M5 north bound. From that point onwards it became our refuge and salvation at difficult and challenging times. When faced with danger, in the form of nature or Rachael, an image of some Charlet Moser Quasar ice axes, or a Mountain Hardware Trango 3.1, would soon raise the tone.
But we didn't just loose ourselves in the realms of fantasy, no not at all. Often we would argue/chat or discuss technical factors determining the performance of our own personal kit:
Alasdair with his Macpac Ascent,
Giles with his very own Primus stove and Tefal cook set,
Jon, of course, with his cripple sticks
(having stylishly breaking his ankle whilst walking over a tuft of grass),
And myself, the proud ex-owner of a 2mm long polarised light bulb that - please don't scorn me - can be seen by searching planes from over a mile away.
I say ex-owner because, sadly, my flasher (as it was affectionately known) became lost one cold and blustery night.
There were also countless discussions over the hut's own, top of the range....... Vango tents.
It didn't matter that the fly sheets didn't fit
It didn't matter that the poles were bent
It didn't matter that the guide ropes never stayed taught
It didn't matter the groundsheets were made of sponge
It didn't matter the mossie net wasn't a midgey net
We still loved them dearly.
...... Until the rain came.
Urrghhhhhhh!
How's dry's your tent?
Look what I have to sleep in!
Move over, your side's well drier than mine.
Don't touch the si.......! Too late.
...... Until the wind came.
Ah.
Are you sure we put the tents here?
Yeh. Um. Definitely. Definitely over there. Not here. No.
...... Until the midges came.
Ouch!
What the hell is that?
That is a joke.
I'm not sleeping in that. It's a black cloud in there.
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,13,14,15,16,17,18,19,20....... 29056145, 29056146.....
Yes, things really did get desperate and ugly, but we hobbled, hopped, ran and dragged ourselves along nonetheless.
But our kit wasn't just full failures.
The minibus, bearer of many scars, did us proud. It became the cripple's bedroom, a general common room, a kitchen, a true friend. More than once the VSL has remarked how the minibus has an almost motherly nature. He theorises that, once taken from our civilisation we seek a new protection and comfort figure. He even goes as far as to say that the minibus, in someway, represents our mothers womb. A comforting thought indeed.
Throughout the trip this could be actively seen. During our silver practice for example we happened to meet up with the minibus in a village - our primeval callings obviously drawing the bus towards us.
Maybe I've taken the theory too far but what remains undisputed is the fact the minibus was a vital piece of equipment.
And all of our equipment was vital to the enjoyment, or pain of the trip. From the toilet roll (that most multifunctional of materials) to sleeping roll, washing up liquid to cooking utensils, Vango tent to survival bag (note: these two can be easily mistaken for one another) - it was lost, broken, misused or stolen by us all.
The minibus was nearly set a light, my flasher was lost, and marmalade disappeared at an alarming rate during the night. But at least the experience, simultaneously made and destroyed by equipment, was character building.
MATT