On trying to turn a sea-level husband on to hillwalking
Anthropologist Mary-Ann is author of Hidden Histories: A Spotter’s Guide to the British Landscape and a BMC Hillwalking Ambassador. When not presenting on radio and TV, she loves an adventure in the hills. Throw in a mate, the dog, some chocolate and a wi
“He raises his head, looks me square in the eye and says: ‘I think I’m dying’”
My husband Joe is an excellent man. But he has one problem. He hates hillwalking. “Why,” he asks me, with a quizzical frown, “would you want to walk up a mountain for no reason?” He doesn’t care about the view – “It’s not a cricket pitch, is it?” He definitely can’t be bothered with the physical thrill of a hard-won hill day – “I’ll meet you at the restaurant for dinner instead.” And that’s only if I’ve managed to entice him out of London in the first place.
Every year he graciously accompanies me on one of my walking weekends. It’s my special treat. And on that special weekend I’m in full clownish joviality “This is great! See? Are you loving it? Look, it’s starting to rain…” on I go, luring him upwards with the promise of a pork pie or piece of Gruyère cheese at the next cairn/summit/in half an hour.
When he does set foot on a fellside, he’s annoyingly athletic and surprisingly competent. Last winter he hired a pair of winter boots, crampons and an ice axe for the day and, under alpine-blue skies, we trundled up a frozen Pyg track to the summit of Snowdon. We had fun, and I allowed myself a tiny moment wondering whether this would be the weekend that would convert him.
The next day it was the weather that had turned, promising 50mph gusts. So we made our target Moel Eilio (726m), south of Llanberis. Safe from the worst of the wind, and well below the snowline, this was going to be an easy day.
About an hour in, marching ahead of Joe, chirruping jaunty thoughts about plans for the evening, I look back to see him much further behind than expected. He’s bent almost double, hood pulled up and cinched tight around his head. I stop. He stops. So I walk back down to him. He’s still bent over, his cheeks flushed. He raises his head, looks me square in the eyes and says “I think I’m dying.” He’s otherwise totally coherent. “I’m cold. Very cold. I’m dying. I’m having a heart attack.” I laugh. And then realise that he’s serious. And seriously panicking. Then he lets out a wail. “I can’t die here. You’re supposed to die doing something you love,” he stutters, eyes rolling wildly. “And I’m walking up an effing mountain,” he chokes on the words, close to tears.
As I unzip his jacket I can feel the heat from his chest. And realise that under the hard shell there’s a thick cotton hoodie, two cotton T-shirts and a base layer. He’s wearing his restaurant outfit. The T-shirts are drenched in now rapidly cooling sweat. No wonder he feels cold and weird!
I force him to take them off and put on the spare fleece we have with us. He sips some water, nibbles some chocolate and gradually feels better. But what he keeps muttering, and for the following four hours, and for the whole drive back to London, is that he shouldn’t ever walk up a hill again. In case he dies.
Not the result I’d hoped for.