UKC

 

It’s fair to say, I think, that all bivouacs, as long as they’re occasional rather than habitual, are more or less memorable, but that’s not to say they are all more or less enjoyable. So let’s see who can beat this one for sheer crappiness. The word can be taken literally or figuratively, but in my case it was all too literal, and persons of a delicate disposition might like to turn off now.

 

Well, I was in the Saastal late last August with a sound 48 hour meteo and I took the notion to recreate the jaunt in August 2000 when I progressed, marginally, from Scottish Munro punter to Alpine PD punter, the S ridge of the Weissmies from a bivvy on the Zwischbergenpass, and it was an entirely joyous experience. To minimise pack weight this time as I was a bit out of practice I didn’t take much food, and instead used the facilities on the way up, lunch at the Almagelleralp and dinner at the Hut, and on up to the pass for around 9, daylight fading.

 

There’s a bivvy circle right on the col close to the top of the eastern approach (the E and W approaches culminate at points several hundred metres apart, linked by a rocky passage), so that saved any searching. Tucked up in the bag I was fine, looking forward to a 4.30am start, but before very long there were signs that all was not well intestinally. I lay in denial for a while before accepting the inevitable, dragging myself out and off to a suitably remote and untrodden area on the west side for a major dump.

 

That’ll be me all right then, won’t it? Two enormous eggy eructations suggested maybe not, and sure enough another twice, at roughly 1 hour intervals, say midnight and 1am, I had to reluctantly emerge (and I forget which came first) once to vomit violently and retch, once to release a stream of diarrhoea which finished off my limited supply of bog roll (and, believe me, flat stones are a poor substitute, as I learned later).

 

Things had definitely gone a bit pear-shaped, but I still had hopes of getting to the summit, catching the sunrise over Lombardy or wherever, and I had my first and only sound sleep of the night. 2 hours of it maybe, for a bit after 3 I was wakened by an urgent need (oh feck feck feck, not again) to get up and out.

 

Denial lasted a millisecond or two, then a frantic scurry, but even so by the time I’d emerged from the three layered cocoon, got my feet into boots, and retreated a minimally decent distance, no,  it wasn’t even close to not being far too late. O sweet cheeses, what a mess. My boxers were befouled beyond any redemption, and I propelled them down a scruffy couloir on the west side, a sort of Gardyloo (Gardymerd? Gardypoo?) Gully. My salopettes carried a similar quantity of ordure, but they were too new and had cost too much to be similarly condemned. Instead I took a quick swig from the platypus and sacrificed the rest, only a pint or so, in an effort to sluice off the mess. With 3 hands (squeeze bladder to produce a jet, squeeze bite valve, manipulate garment) this might have had some success, but with only 2 it was pretty futile.

 

Still unwearable, so what was I going to wear between jacket and socks on the way back to Saas Grund? All I could think of was making a skirt (a dirndl? hardly a kilt) out of the sleeping bag liner, which to be fair was a rather fetching purple silk item, held up by what - a salopette strap? This, believe it or not, loomed as a serious possibility, and I was past caring very much anyway. Then it occurred to me that I might just have a pair of running shorts in the pack – oh please please please. It wasn’t looking hopeful as I searched through it, but then at the foot of a side pocket . . . oh, thank you.

 

So, setting off (downwards of course) from a 3300m col at 4am in a skimpy pair of shorts – well, it beat the alternative and seemed relatively conventional. Fouled garment strapped to the outside of my pack, my legs probably equally foul, it was going to be a long walk back, neither of the luftseilbahnen (Hohsaas or Furggstalden) an option in my noisome condition, nor the bus from Saas Almagell. In fact I resolved to avoid all human proximity as far as possible – far adrift as I am on the wide Asperger Sea, this would merely be taking my usual behaviour to the extreme.

 

Lines of lights were already straggling up from the hut, and as each one drew near I would switch off my own light, leave the path and melt away into the darkness – I really didn’t want to have to account for myself. There was one last diarrhoeic episode before dawn and I was drained to the dregs, and felt it.

 

There’s a path down from the hut which stays high on the north side of the valley, much less used than the lower, so that was my route, and there was a curious incident a mile or so along it. Air Zermatt’s Bell came chuntering up the valley – supplies and/or personnel for the hut I assumed, but no, when adjacent to me it took a sharp left and headed my way - WTF? WTbleedinF? Calling for help had never crossed my mind, so are the REGA teams trained in ESP and someone sensed a soul in distress? Did someone report a furtive semi-clad wraith coming down off the mountain in the dark? No, it all became clear when I noticed a couple, father and son presumably, by the side of the path 100m ahead, the boy seemingly ill or injured and the object of the rescue.

https://tinyurl.com/almagellertal

 

Well, by paths less travelled I made it back to the apartment in about 12 hours, with many stops as I was utterly whacked, having encountered only three people and a dog on the way, and I was fine the next day. And that concludes the story of the most wretched misbegotten bivvy I’ve ever had.

 

So, entertain/console me with a more woeful tale.

 

In reply to streapadair:

Did you ever determine whether the culprit was lunch or dinner?

In reply to streapadair:

Nope, I've had some poor tent nights and some poor bivies, but your story takes the biscuit.  You are the winner and you should claim your £200.

In reply to streapadair:

I've had bivvies where I really did think I might not see morning - but none of them were as bad as yours. Great story.

W

In reply to streapadair:The best scatalogical story I have ever had the mispleasure of reading! I could almost smell your pain.

 

In reply to streapadair:

I've had a couple of episodes of bad tummy in hotels in Africa where I have only been able to survive the filthy room, broken porcelain, no water, no electicity and pubic hairs in the bed by tellling myself: "It could be worse, you could be bivvying in pouring rain on a Scottish hillside."  Somewhat ironic, I think.

In reply to streapadair:

Not as wretched as yours by a long way, but in the days when I went to sleep with a rifle I found myself a nice bed on top of a 1 tonne trailer one night.  It was packed with an assortment of nice soft stuff, was covered with a tarpaulin and had plenty of room to stretch out.  All in all, it made a very cosy hammock shaped-bed and so I contentedly snuggled down for the night. 

It later came on to rain, and so I pulled the hood over my face and all was well.  By about 1am, the weather had built itself up into a raging storm of torrential rain, thunder, lightning and a gale.  Being made of stern stuff (as if!) I snuggled deeper and slept on. 

By 3am, all was not well.  My hammock-shaped depression in the trailer had filled with water to the level of my chest and my bivi-bag was leaking.  I had a wet arse and was no longer happy.  I pushed down with an elbow to sit up and work out what was going on and, as I did, I pushed the opening of the bivi bag below the water line and in it all came.  I twitched to the other side, but found a gap in the trailer's load and slumped into it.  My head and chest were now below the water line and it went from bad to worse.  Coughing, I sort of surfaced but was still bound from head to toe in a soaking wet sleeping bag and with my feet above my head.   

My struggles eventually got me out of my bag and I fell off the trailer to stand in socks, a pair of long johns and a T-shirt in a thunder storm in a muddy field wondering how the f*** my life had led to this, where my bloody rifle was and what the blazes I was going to do next that wouldn't be recorded for posterity and recounted at every opportunity. 

I settled for a wet sleeping bag, between two puddles under the trailer. 

'What the f*** happened to you, boss?' I was asked in the morning, several times.  I was economical with the truth, omitted to mention anything about nearly drowning in my sleeping bag and never slept on anything similar ever again.

In reply to streapadair:

Ah.  Well that'd be the one where we dug a snow coffin with the coffee table guidebook and the snow wasn't very deep so we lay in said shallow grave, spooned up, and shivering for dawn, having got benighted by climbing the wrong mountain, consequent to forgetting we had 1:25k map not a 1:50k one, and by a *much* harder route than we'd planned (or actually were capable of on paper, which goes to show a whole other thing).  About 4am I realised we might just survive, and when the chopper turned up looking for us (empty tent next to the hut; guardienne knew of planned (though not actual) objective, we waved it away.

Everything else has felt trivial since

In reply to streapadair:

Mine was camping.. not bivvying. We'd landed in Delhi and bussed for 24 hours stopping at random towns, then we'd spent a few days in Manali. I was eating anything ignoring all advice being 17. Then of course I was shitting through the eye of a needle. The Expedition Doctor said take an Imodium, or maybe it was 2, so I doubled the dose.. over a week later and I've still not really gone and I wake up in this village well off the beaten track, pretty lawless needing a shit.. like really bad.

I run to the pit toilet and face this massive spider thing. We'd just had one run up a porters leg so I was kind of spooked so that wasn't happening..

Anyway, I run down the trail, jump a fence, find a nice tree and release hell in that woodland. 

I leave, re-climb the fence, turn to look at the sign and it says in some language and then in english 'keep out, Holy Wood' or sacred wood or something. I legged it back to the camp. There was actually a couple murdered there just after we left and the police weren't allowed in. It was well to the north of india. Had I been seen I think I'd have been hung.. as a 17 year old realizing I'd just de-faced a holy site was pretty terrifying..

In reply to jon:

 

 

Well, I wouldn't point any finger without strong evidence, and I quite like both the establishments in the valley. I'd had a rösti mit ei at Almagelleralp, and as I mentioned the huge burps tasted distinctly eggy, but maybe with this sort of gastric disorder they all do. Water maybe? - I only remember filling up at the spout outside the hut, and I didn't notice any Kein Trinkwasser sign.

 

My table companions at the hut were a pair of outgoing Hungarians, and one produced a hip flask of what he said was home made Pálinka at 70% proof. I resisted his invitation, a pity perhaps as I could have put the blame on that.

 

A mystery then, but no long term harm done.

 

In reply to nniff:

nniff and Roadrunner ('L' - that's a laugh ), thanks for your horror stories. Honestly made me feel mine wasn't so bad after all.

In reply to streapadair:

Brilliant story - well written! 

I have used a paperback as a sleeping mat and 550g sleeping bag (actual weight, not the fill!) for Scottish summer. Somehow survived over a week in such set up as I previously have been all over the Europe hitchhiking and wandering without a problem. Scotland, apparently, is a lot colder! 

In reply to streapadair:

My bet would be on the water outside the hut. There are always ibex around there...

In reply to streapadair:

A mate of mine suffered a similar gastric upset inside his sleeping bag. Due to alcohol, he slept through the whole thing. 

When he awoke & emerged from his bag some time later, he apparently looked like he'd been spray tanned from the chest down. 

 

In reply to streapadair:

Where do I start? Autostrada bridge? Founds of the CIC extension? El Alamein with no roof? Storm-chaser's snow hole? Blown out from under a shelter stone in a full-on Cairngorm storm?

Too many.

Good idea for a book though!

In reply to streapadair:

Grizzly story I can't come close to matching (thankfully). Worst night bivying I've had was in a dry stream bed in Yosemite. The storm came just after dark then the water and the falling rocks and the lightning. We stayed put in the stream, cold and drenched flinching with each deafening boom and flash or rattle of rocks because we had no idea which way to move for the better. When the morning eventually came it revealed a burning tree meters from our soggy camp and some haggard Americans, the wide whites of their eyes visible through the mud and grime who'd spent the night on the end of their rope hanging below the summit in a gully to escape the fireworks. Their condition quickly put our disturbed night and smouldering tree in perspective.

Fantastic photos by the way, I'm glad you included the link.

jk

In reply to streapadair:

Nothing on that level, just stuck on top of a route in wadi rum, with a t shirt. Coiled myself with the rope. Not very pleasant.

In reply to streapadair

This is nowhere near to your experience but perhaps worth a mention as we're on the subject of woeful bivouacs:

Back in the winter of 2008 walking the Cambrian Way between Crickhowel and Storey Arms, it was February and -2 degrees, I bivvied in a wood at the very top of the Dyffryn Crawnon Valley.

I took my Jack Russell too who was (supposed to be) a handy hot water bottle. However, I awoke at around 2am shivering frantically with Hypothermia, my bivvy had condensated too much and my sleeping bag became damp as a result. The hot water bottle had disappeared and scarpered through the woods after something else with four legs, I later found him swimming in a small pool in the nearby stream while I fought the Hypothermia!

I spent the next hour gathering sticks to build a fire but the bloody dog kept snatching them out of my hand and running off into the night with them. A rather sleepless night but got the fire going in the end.

The sun came up and we walked over the Beacons to Storey Arms in the most amazing morning sunlight.

Jason

In reply to streapadair:

Nothing quite so terrible as yours, but last year my girlfriend and I got benighted on a 200m route in the Verdon Gorge with no head torches and subsequently ran out of water, food and just about everything else. We abbed down to the start ledge 20m above the Gorge (no walk-out possible from this point and the ropes got stuck anyway) and spent a very chilly night shivering under a 1-man foil survival blanket. Went through the usual protocol of waking up every hour and stamping around to get warm again, surrounded by the weird quietness of the Gorge - all you can hear is the river rushing past underneath. By 6am we'd had enough and climbed out a different route after retrieving the ropes which came out easily in the day, the bastards. Grim at the time but quite funny now. Weird how these things become fun after a while! 

In reply to MischaHY:

I’ve still not quite come to terms with water-boarding myself while bivvying!

In reply to streapadair:

Under a bush on Cleethorpes seafront after a night out.

 

Was woken up by a dog licking my face. 

In reply to Nevis-the-cat:

Utterly horrendous, Mr R, puts my trivial inconveniences into perspective.

In reply to streapadair:

Ok...to hijack the scatalogical gross side of things...

10 mins from the car after mountain walk, strolling along with wife, 3 yr old kid, and mutt off lead (Australian Shepherd). We tarry to eat raspberries. I'm suddenly aware that mutt has sloped off following her nose (never a good sign). I pursue, but alas, too late! She's consumed some uncouth individual's poo. All that remains is the toilet paper. Mutt licks her lips, content. Ho hum. So far, so gross. 5 mins later we arrive back at the car. The boot is full, so mutt jumps up onto her allotted place on the back seat while wife is strapping in son. Seconds later, mutt projectile vomits the just-consumed human excrement and the rest of the contents of her stomach onto the back seat and floor of (pretty new!) car. Kid looks on, vaguely bemused. I'm LITERALLY in a state of shock...NOOOOOOOOO! Numb...waves of nausea...maybe we can sell the car...the smell...the smell....the horror...the horror....Wife saves the day. I was incapable of rational thought.

In reply to streapadair:

 Bivvy in étriers on the Buhlweg (Roda di Vael) tied on from above but with bum sliding off all night from the small rounded bulge on the sheer wall serving as seat. No food and watching the lightning display which turned into a full scale storm as we finished the route next day. Happy days!

Ps no crap involved though