In all the years I've been walking or climbing in hills, I've visualised many scenarios, wondering how I would deal with problem X or predicament Y, but I had never thought about the pitfalls of having to complete a walk with only one boot.
The forecast was the best I’d seen for days, and after a frustrating week of waiting each day for a call telling me I was to leave for a stint of offshore work, I was keen to get out in the hills. I decided on a walk up Glen Eanaich , back along the tops taking in Sgurr Gaoith, and home through the forest. There were some nice atmospherics as I gained height out of Strathspey, cloud inversions and moody mists through the forest. All was going well until, halfway up the glen, I had to ford a substantial river, swollen by the heavy rains of the previous days.
I put my camera in my bag, anticipating a tricky crossing due to the depth, speed and cold temperature of the water, and pulled my boots off, one in each hand, with my trousers pulled up to my knees. I don’t know why I didn't tie my boots together and hang them round my neck like I have in every single river crossing I have ever done, thus leaving my hands free for all eventuality such as, for example, a boulder shifting under my foot. Experienced readers, or those with foresight and a grasp of consequences, will have noticed the schoolboy error contained within the previous sentence. Your Honour, I do not attempt to describe motivations or reasons for my actions – I merely present a record of the sequence of events as they occurred.
I stepped gingerly through the freezing knee deep water. Halfway across, a boulder under my foot shifted, throwing me off balance and I stumbled, luckily stopping myself from a complete soaking with my right arm. But this came at a price, the cost of which came only too apparent as I watched my right boot, with its companion sock stuffed inside, floating jauntily down the river at a rate of knots. Mid stream, feet somehow simultaneously both numb with and burning with the cold, I could only watch for a precious few seconds as my boot surfed the rapids. I stumbled as quickly as I could to the far side, dropped the remaining boot and rucksack and sped off barefoot down the bank, hoping painfully over the sharp heather stems, barely keeping up with the boot, which was by now some distance away. My last sight of it, still riding high in the water, was as it joined the main river rushing down the glen whereupon it performed a victory pirouette, and vanished downstream.
The situation now, Your Honour, was that I was missing one boot, about 6 miles from home by the way I had come, and on the wrong side of the river. With rather more preparation this time, I re-crossed the river and fashioned a foot covering out of waterproof trousers and a pair of gaiters I had (luckily) brought with me. I tried to follow the path of the river to find my errant boot, but due to the nature of the ground and my Heath Robinson footwear it was hopeless. With every view of the white water thundering down the glen, my hopes of finding my missing boot dwindled, and I reverted to walking somewhat lopsidedly down the track.
I remained, however, in good cheer, aided by a secret weapon I had fortuitously packed in my rucksack. Many years ago I had read of Mummery’s Blood, often intending to take it with me in the hills, and finally, today happened to be the day! For those unfamiliar with this elixir, Mummery’s Blood is equal parts dark rum, Bovril (although my vegetarian version used Marmite) and black pepper, served piping hot. The alleged properties of this hearty mix are remarkable: “Its effect on both mind and body is nourishing, warming, strengthening; it lowers angles, shortens distances, and improves weather." At this stage, I would, Your Honour, like to take this opportunity to affirm that it was only after the river crossing that I opened my flask and partook, not before. However, at each stop to renew and tighten my home made foot covering I would thereafter have a cupful.
In a similar vein to the philosophical debate regarding the chicken and egg, I am not sure as to the extent of cause and effect, but the stops to mend my foot coverings became more frequent, and my flask of Mummery’s Blood became emptier. It is not impossible, Your Honour, that the efficiency of the repairs became more questionable, but I can attest to the veracity of the claims made for the drink, as the journey home is a bit of a blur, and was over before I knew it.
This has not been a tale of derring-do in the mountains, nor an epic tale of heroic survival against the odds. I offer it merely as a reminder of the requirement to leave both hands free during river crossings, and if that is not heeded or relevant, as a confirmation of the magical properties of Mummery’s Blood. I would be interested to hear of other stories which also expose errors of judgement either on the rock or in the hills. Your Honour, I hope the court is magnanimous in its verdict, but more importantly, I hope that others will profit by the histories detailed here and hopefully below.
Finally, if anyone finds a right hand Brashers boot complete with attendant sock in the rivers Am Beanaidh, Druie or Spey, do please let me know.
