It had now been dark for at least two hours. We were on the A9 heading north towards Inverness, somewhere between Pitlochry and Dalwhinnie, and close to the Drumochter Pass. Exactly how close was a bit of a mystery, as we had been driving through a blizzard for the last half hour. The signs were almost completely obliterated by snow. The road itself was hard enough to find, and even the GPS was refusing to co-operate. In front, we could see about 50 yards at most, behind nothing due to the fact that the vehicle was loaded with kit right up to the roof. The overtaking mirrors were encrusted with snow, ice, and road grime, but I could just make out the headlights of the first six or so vehicles that snaked out in convoy behind us. Sat beside me was Granville Pool, Californian Land Rover nut and fellow "netter". Gran had come over to glean information on the Foers Ibex, and to co-drive the Highland Enduro. The 200 tdi growled on, totally un-fazed by the conditions. A thought came into my head: I had clearly gone insane. To enter such an event in winter with a bloke from California? Land of sun, sand, surf, and Baywatch? I looked across at him. "Great. Perfect. Just what I was hoping for", he chuckled. Clearly it was he who was insane. Either that or we both were.
Around Carrbridge the snow died out, and we were surprised to find that Inverness had escaped it completely. We reached the hotel at Drumnadrochit at about 8:30pm, having taken ten hours to cover about 380 miles. It had been a long, long day. Despite "The Clansman" being a sizable establishment, we were the only two guests they had that night, the rest of "Team Thunderbex" being scheduled to arrive sometime the next day. We had a meal and a couple of drinks, and then suggested that they should shut the bar and lock up. We figured they were losing enough money on us as it was.
The format for the Highland Enduro was quite simple. Split into groups, and try to get as many vehicles as possible to the top of three as yet undisclosed hills. The hills in question had never been driven by any 4x4, indeed the landowner was rumoured to have described the challenge as "impossible". We had been told that the land was a mix of bogs, swamps, rocks, and very steep slopes, interspersed with firmer, more gentle sloping ground, the whole extending to some 5000 acres. Markers had been placed at the summits by Club Off Road, using quad bikes as their mode of transport. Our task was to get there by two tonne 4x4, an altogether different undertaking. It was not a race, nor even a competition, but by the very nature of the event, it was obvious that everyone present would be out to do well. "Team Thunderbex" were a group of five Foers Ibex, two mark II's, and three mark I's, in a mixture of 240 (93"), and 250 (100") wheelbase. Although the Ibex is a highly capable vehicle in it's own right, we also had a secret weapon with us in the shape of three sets of low ground pressure "terratyres". Yep, we were set to have some seriously good fun.
As advance "recce" party, Granny and I decided that after breakfast we should go down the road and seek out the site. The weather was fine but the sky was rather ominous looking. We were soon to learn to keep a close watch on this leaden and broody sky. Through the village of Drumnadrochit we took the A 831 to Cannich, climbing up to Loch Meiklie before making the gentle descent into Strathglass. There was a good covering of snow on the road, and as we pulled into Cannich village we were hit, without warning, by a white-out blizzard. I found a phone box and rang Steve Maddison to give him a weather report. Too late. He and the rest had already set off. Taking the back road out of the village, we found what would have been a good vantage point, with a view across to the hills in question. Suddenly, the clouds and mist parted, and there were the three hills laid out in front of us. For a few minutes the sun shone weakly through a tiny gap in the cloud-base, and we scrutinised the terrain as best we could from long range.
The rest of the team arrived at the hotel that evening. First Brian and Dave, then Wally and John just behind them. Steve M, Neil, Steve B and Robin, came in at about 8:30. We were now all present and correct.
Our first task was a complete wheel change on four out of the five vehicles, a chore which we undertook on the level standing of the hotel car park. The "terras" went on Steve's, John's, and mine, Steve B received some very wide BFG MT rubber (in a size I didn't know existed), and Brian remained on his 285/75 MT's. The heavy sleet seemed to hold us back, and we were late leaving. It was about 15 miles to Cannich, and the "terras" were a nightmare on the puddled, slushy roads, reducing the convoy's safe top speed to around 35mph. By the time we reached the village car park it was well after 10:00am, and snowing. Owen Sayers was waiting for us, and about to unload his Unimog from it's trailer. The Mog drove off the trailer, and promptly died. Owen's Enduro had finished before it had even started. We hung around. Finally the CB squawked into life, and the instruction was received to drive the long way round, to the site entrance. Brian Hartley was there to greet us, and we quickly sorted the finances and received our verbal do's and don'ts. "Head up this track and keep going until you see a group of (C.O.R.) Land Rovers". The trees stopped abruptly at about the 200 metre contour, and the group were clearly visible in the distance. Ten minutes later we had the three GPS co-ordinates, and a good view of the hills in question. At least it had stopped snowing. "Team Thunderbex" were about to start the Highland Enduro, some two hours or so after everyone else.
A quick team meeting was called for. Every man and his dog appeared to be tackling the nearest and smallest of the hills, so the decision made was to go for the middle one. Ground cover was basically heather, the spiky shoots being just visible above the deep snow, and I thought this was a good sign as heather doesn't like really wet bog or marsh. I volunteered to lead the group, and walked down to a small stream which we had to cross, kicking the snow about to see if the numerous humps and mounds were in fact rocks. I picked a point which seemed like a good place to cross, and then headed back to the Ibex. One of the red jacketed C.O.R. team pointed out four wooden stakes, arranged in a square. "See those stakes? That's a recognised crossing place." The funny thing was I couldn't see the stream at that particular point, so I suppose I must have reasoned that there was a culvert, or some such thing, under the snow. As I got nearer I noticed that there were no familiar spikes of heather about either. In the middle of the "crossing point" we nose-dived into the slop. Thanks mate, I'll remember that. And I'll stick with my own judgement next time. Steve KERRed us out backwards, and we then crossed higher up, on virgin ground.
The sun was now shining, and Gran got out to make the most of the photo opportunities, Wally replacing him as my lookout. Slowly we wound our way up the trackless hillside, always in the general direction of the middle hill, but changing course continuously to try and stay on the heather. The other four vehicles were spread out behind us, all making steady forward progress. We stopped at intervals to examine pockets of ground where there was no heather. These areas were inevitably peat bog, or really bad marsh, or an outcrop of bedrock and boulders. All three were to be avoided, the first two at all costs. The tyres were performing amazingly, the Ibex revelling in the conditions and making light work of any softer ground. Only Steve B's non-lockered and BFG shod truck was giving any slight cause for concern.
With Gran back on board and the middle summit in sight we hit our first significant obstacle, a long, straight climb of about 30 degrees. We had three or four attempts at it, each time almost reaching the top before losing traction and having to back off. Way below, the rest of the team were huddled together, waiting to see if it was a viable route to the top. There looked to be an alternative possible route to the left, and Neil now joined us on foot as we drove around to investigate. On this side there were rocks everywhere, all well hidden by the snow. Collisions were inevitable but somehow nothing got bent. Wally joined as a second spotter, and with Neil directing from the top of the hill we tried to claw our way up, but in the end we were just getting more and more sideways on, in worsening terrain. Returning to the original slope, Wally fetched a ground anchor. It was a plough type, and I don't trust plough anchors. The anchor held just long enough to enable us to winch up onto the plateau. John followed, powering his vehicle all the way up the slope under it's own steam. So much for my driving ability!
There was one more serious step to climb, before the gentle slope of the summit proper. It was much shorter, maybe only twenty five feet, but very steep. This was a certain winching job. I hit both lockers and we charged it, getting about three quarters of the way up. The Ibex skitted sideways, crab-fashion. I braked and switched off. The plough anchor arrived and Brian, Dave, Gran, and Neil searched for a suitable patch of ground for the pull. Everything ready I started the winch, the anchor failed, and the Ibex lost two feet of ground backwards. Three or four times we tried, each time the anchor failed, and each time I lost eighteen inches of ground. By now I was sat on a one-in-one, with a four foot vertical drop behind me, just two feet away. First gear was needed to help the winch, and if the anchor gave way again there would be no time to select reverse and "floor it". This was a bad situation - I was lining up for a certain back-flip.
The Ibex was creaking and groaning, and every now and then would move slightly on the snow. I daren't let my foot off the brake in case there wasn't enough ground left to take up the slippage and transmission slack. We needed Patrick's radical new anchor, and we needed it fast. Unfortunately, the truck carrying it was at the bottom of the first slope. By the time the anchor had been lugged up the hill, and set to everyone's satisfaction, I had been sat, right-foot-jammed-hard-on-brake, for twenty five minutes.
The new anchor held beautifully, and the Ibex hauled itself up onto the final gentle slope. I switched the engine off and virtually fell out of the motor, desperate to try and get some life back into a very numb leg.
John pulled himself up on the same anchor point and we decided that two vehicles at the top was enough. The final drive to the summit marker was only a few yards, and the cameras came out to record the event. Unbeknown to us at the time, we had just conquered by far the most difficult of the three hills. From here on the hills were to prove easy, it was the ground in between that was to hinder us.
We winched ourselves back down the slope as this was considered by all to be the safest option, John going down forwards as befits a man whose vehicle has a centre mounted inboard winch, and I going backwards off the more conventional front mounted winch. We decided that this was a good point to change drivers, and I was certainly ready for a rest, so Granny took the hot seat and I settled down to some obstacle spotting and prepared myself for some walking, which was very hard on the leg muscles in the deep snow and heather. Neil and Steve lead us around the back of the hill, to try an assault on the third peak by the shortest and most direct route, but it was not to be. The yellow Ibex was now stuck fast, disabled by a surprise bog-in-a-gully. The kinetic ropes came out again and the rest of the team soon had them free, subsequently backing up to the safety of a fairly level and firm area. It started snowing, quite steadily, and in truth it looked set in. We had a quick discussion and agreed unanimously that if a blizzard was coming, then this was not the best place to make camp. Abandoning the attempt on hill three, we started to backtrack our route, the new goal being hill one, or a safer camp site should conditions deteriorate further. The blizzard never materialised, and with hindsight this was a mistake. At the time however, it seemed like the right thing to do, and besides, the one thing we'd forgotten to bring was the crystal ball.
As the team re-grouped below the middle hill we met up with some of the other entrants for the first time, a couple of Jeep Wranglers and a brace of Defenders. Granny and I set off across country, to try and carve a trouble free route to the first hill. The going was painfully slow, and I walked the whole time in front as Gran drove up hill and down dale, swinging from left to right in wide arcs, looking for firm ground. We must have driven a mile and a quarter maybe, ending up on top of a low hill. The snow had stopped and the mist that replaced it was now lifting slightly. We had a good view from the hill, but the rest of the team were not behind us. Peering into the distance we could just make them out, still halfway down the middle hill, where we had left them. Clearly someone had got seriously stuck. I tried to call them up on the CB, but there was no reply. Finally, Steve B came through faintly. They seemed disorientated, unable to pick up our tracks. We watched as Brian went off down a hill, the wrong way, and then needed to be recovered back up it. Gran turned the vehicle to face them and switched all the lights on. We must have shone like a beacon as the convoy eventually plodded slowly across the landscape towards us.
We set off again, still as a lone vehicle but with the rest rapidly catching up. Across the next ridge we came upon a large saucer shaped area, like a shallow crater, with a flat bottom which looked suspiciously like a frozen marsh. We had to drop down into the crater, but taking no chances with the bog we skirted around the outside, along the base of the saucer walls, eventually ending up close to the foot of the first peak. Two or three attempts to climb out of the crater resulted in failure. By now Steve B and Robin had caught us, and Steve spotted a potential way out via a little twisting "V" gully. We watched as they gave it a try, but the 240 pick-up got stuck on the first corner. With terratyres and twin air-lockers we thought we had a better chance, and there was just enough room left to squeeze the Ibex through on the nearside of Steve. Gran gave it a go while I tried some rather futile pushing on Steve's motor. The two Ibex passed with room to spare, and Gran steamed off up the gully to the next corner, a right hander. Suddenly there was a bang. A rather large round boulder had jumped out from it's snow covered lair, and run straight under the front offside wheel! This was no obstacle at all for the grippy terratyre, so the nose of the Ibex had become airborne, returned rapidly back to earth, and landed with the spaceframe side rail square on top of the rock. I rushed to the scene anxious to assist, but it was too late. The boulder was dead.
Ibex are built from stronger stuff than boulders and there appeared to be no damage. However, we were stuck, the rock being trapped under the frame, just behind the front wheel. Robin got the hi-lift out and we raised the motor free of the rock and slewed it to one side. A quick check of the steering components indicated that all was OK. The last part of the gully was a straight run up to an old, dead looking tree. Reasoning that the tree would make a good anchor if our winch was needed, the Ibex was scrambled up the gully, turned around, and secured by the rear pintle to the base of the trunk. By now it was half dark, and all the others had caught up and were forming an orderly queue at the start of the gully.
It was a veritable hive of activity as some winched and some drove up the gully, the whole group of five eventually reforming on a small plateau just below the summit of the first hill. We all agreed that this was an ideal place to make camp, so the three terratyred Ibex set about driving backwards and forwards and around in circles, in order to flatten a decent sized area of snow and heather. As the tents were erected we could see that others were continuing to work in the half darkness, whether it was by choice or necessity we had no idea. The summit of the middle hill, though distant, was especially visible from our camp, and we watched for some time as two vehicles battled on in the rapidly fading light.
Four Ibex had been parked in a square, and a lightweight plastic tarpaulin flung across the top of them and secured at ground level provided a fine shelter under which we could cook and generally sort the kit out. Wally, Gran, and Dave got the dinner started - a cauldron of Bachelors Wholesoup, plenty of bread, followed by risotto (sausage, if I remember rightly). At the same time the mobile camp fire came out, a wooden tea chest full of kindling, logs, and a couple of newspapers. Neil and Steve lit the fire and soon had a roaring blaze going, and I for one was glad to see the back of that tea chest which had been taking up so much room in the already cramped rear of our motor. With hot food in our bellies and a good fire burning, things were looking none too bad, but the temperature was dropping fast. It was time to swing into action with our other secret weapon - half a sack of coal!
You can't beat coal for radiant heat, unless of course you have access to Dave's hip flask filled with "Rusty Nail", a delicious and thoroughly warming cocktail of whisky and Drambuie. I wouldn't say that it was an especially large hip flask, so it baffled me why it took so long to empty, passed as it was around the assembled party several times in a sort of tribal fashion. The mist had filled the whole of the glen below us, but where we were situated, at about 1200 feet, it was as clear as crystal, and it felt about 12 below zero. Twice the fog came up the hill and enveloped us, and with it came a real bone-chilling cold, but both times it receded as quickly as it came. The full moon and deep snow meant that we had very good visibility, and we could easily see two or three of our fellow entrants' camps in the distance. The odd fire blazed, and vehicle and camp lights shone through the clear air until about 11:00pm, when slowly they began to be extinguished.
It was about this time when a young lad in his early teens suddenly appeared out of nowhere at our camp fire. Maddi must have recognised him because I heard him say "where's your dad?". The lad looked frozen and didn't bother to waste energy with an in-depth explanation. Pointing to the top of the hill which we were camped under he muttered "up there". Robin went off to investigate armed with torch and whistle, at the insistence of the rest of the team (mountain rescue by helicopter was not on Brian Hartley's itinerary). After about 15 or 20 minutes I went up the hill to find him, again complete with torch and whistle. I found Robin at the summit talking to Keith Hutchin's team, who looked in a very sorry state. Colin Gross was wearily dragging some bog-covered sand ladders up the last stretch of the hill. He looked a different bloke from the last time I had seen him, marshalling on the Bulldog Trophy. They told the story of how they had set off for hill one, going around the right hand side, and found bog after freezing bog. They'd had vehicles down to the door handles, winch motors had burned out, all really cheerful, spirit-raising stuff. They'd been at it solid since the start. It had been a bad day. In fact, it had been a very bad day. "We've got a great fire going just a hundred yards down the hill. The Rusty Nails have gone but we've still got some whisky and some brandy. Come down and get yerselves warm". Guess what? They didn't need asking twice.
Half an hour later our guests departed looking a little happier, but still with their tents to pitch. Fatigue was now getting on top of us, so we all disappeared inside the frozen bits of fabric that were to provide our humble bivouac for the night. Climbing inside the borrowed army "arctic grade" sleeping bag which my brother-in-law had kindly loaned me, I soon deduced that it must have been manufactured with future global warming in mind. Still, by sleeping fully clothed, including two fleeces, overtrousers, hat and mittens, I discovered that I could keep my body temperature at a steady "cold", rather than the slightly less comfortable "hypothermic". Deep slumber was further inhibited by Gran's snoring, which I later learnt was recorded as seismic activity on instruments at Aberdeen University.
I am not normally a very early riser, but I was especially keen to view the Sunday simply because it meant that I must still be alive. Clearly Wally had also survived because he was cooking some bacon. The orange juice hadn't fared quite so well and was now in a cryogenic state awaiting resuscitation. Robin was wandering around with the video camera recording the pitiful scene - our camp in the daylight looked like a shanty town populated by delinquent Afghan rebels. No ..... that's not being very fair to Afghan rebels. Anyway, slowly we broke camp and packed everything away.
One by one the engines were started, and all fired up first time. Maddi had cunningly suggested that we leave the handbrakes off, so that they did not freeze on. It was sound advice, but on engaging first gear we discovered that some of the vehicles refused to move. Confused at first, a short investigation revealed that they were in fact frozen solid to the ground! Twenty minutes later and we were all mobile, and I lined our motor up at the bottom of the short winch-pull to the next plateau. The slope was treacherously frozen, and had the added interest of a protruding rock or two thrown in for good measure. In time honoured fashion I decided to go for the conventional "get as far up as you can, then stop and winch the rest" technique, so the lockers went in and I scrambled about halfway up. Forward motion now ceased, I hit the brakes and clutch. Errrrm ....... minor technical problem: We had a clutch all right, but no brakes.
It took about a quarter of a second for me to realise what had happened, and about another tenth to think "engage reverse". In the next tenth of a second I decided that dropping the clutch in reverse on the icy slope would induce a slide, and thus I would be out of control. OK, I admit, I was out of control anyway, but at least I was out of control in a straight line. I hung on and bounced rapidly backwards to the foot of the hill. The brakes were a mass of packed snow and ice, all deep-frozen overnight. It seemed prudent to tell the others that they probably didn't have any brakes either, it being the sort of thing you can cope with better if you know in advance.
Once again we arrived at the foot of the slippery slope, this time with the intention of winching all the way from the bottom. Yet another small plateau lead to yet another undulating run to the flat summit. The two vehicles at the front of the convoy were mine and Stevie B's, and as there was plenty of cross-axle-ing potential in the ground ahead, Stevie was attached to the back of my truck with a couple of KERRs. It was, I think, the first time that weekend that we had used KERRs in tandem, but as future events would shortly demonstrate, it was not to be the last.
I checked the GPS on the top and it confirmed that we were at the summit of hill one. Somebody had built a small snowman, but otherwise it was the least interesting of the three hills, being fairly flat topped and largely devoid of exposed rock. We took the necessary pictures and turned around, the final objective being the highest and most distant peak - Carn Bingally.
Leaving hill one we steered a direct course for the highest peak, three vehicles going down a slope to the right of the gully, and the other two driving the gully itself. We met up just to one side of a small copse of dead trees, the first we had seen since the start. Marshalling ourselves into some sort of a convoy, Gran and I once again ended up at the front, which was sensible enough I suppose as our motor was the only one fitted with GPS. Setting off on firm ground, we followed the tracks left by another group the night before. It was here that someone made a tragic navigational error, one that was to cost us dear in time, and very nearly also in personal possessions to the tune of one Ibex. Oh dear - that someone was me.
We should, of course, have simply backtracked our route from the day before, once again going around the edge of the shallow crater. But the tyre tracks in front lead straight and true in the direction we wanted to go, and I couldn't see any obvious horror areas. We drove down a gentle slope onto a flat plain, which on reflection did seem a little devoid of heather spikes. About half way across I started to get the feeling that this was pretty soft ground, but the terras combined with the rear diff-lock kept us plodding steadily forwards. About three quarters of the way over, things began to get a bit exciting.
John suddenly came tearing past us on the nearside, his arms gesticulating wildly. His tyres were throwing up huge amounts of debris and water. The debris I recognised instantly ....... it was sphagnum moss ....... and that could only mean one thing: We were all in the middle of a giant bog. The signal he was sending us translated roughly as "Excuse me for bothering you chaps, but may I wholeheartedly recommend that we depart from this particular locality, preferably within the next few seconds?", or fewer words to that effect. In the very same instant I got some serious topographic feedback from the vehicle. The earth was, quite literally, moving for us. Rapidly engaging the front locker I fed some power in, and we started to find traction but I could tell that the tyres were struggling. The CB crackled into life. "Don't go too far Pete, we're seriously stuck". It was Stevie B and the tone of his voice unfortunately told me all I needed to know. Behind us, the pick-up had broken through the crust and was now sinking.
We had to carry on, to stop at that point would have been foolish in the extreme. Eventually we found some firm ground up a slight bank. John had vanished at speed away to the left somewhere, and was now completely out of sight. I turned the vehicle around. The scene that greeted us was not a particularly happy one. Maddi was also stuck, facing the opposite way, both he and Steve being right in the middle of the bog. To compound the problem Brian was stranded too, close to the start, fortunately not far enough in to be bogged down as badly as the other two. It looked like Maddi had turned, to try and recover Steve or Brian, and gone straight through himself. It was beginning to make sense now. We had just driven across a semi-frozen swamp, along what must have been a narrow and very fragile causeway. The two diff-locked and terratyred 240's had made it to the other side, but anything bigger, heavier, or less well equipped, was skating on very thin ice indeed, especially following in our wheel tracks, now that we had disturbed the surface. The burning question was, could we get back over the same way? There was only one way to find out.
I rather gingerly drove us back along the same route, just to the side of our previous wheel tracks. If this was a causeway of some sort I was going to make damn sure that we stayed on it. We stopped on the firmest piece of ground I could find that wasn't miles from the stricken pair.
Steve and Neil were in deep water, but luckily they appeared somehow to be sat on the bottom. Steve and Robin were sinking fast, and the four of them were now engaged in a concentrated effort to stabilise the vehicle using sand ladders and a hi-lift jack. John and Wally were nowhere to be seen, so for all we knew they could have been stuck too. The only vehicle we were likely to recover on our own was Brian's, so we drove across the bog and KERRed him out onto firmer land. Putting all available KERRs together on the back of the Ibex and connecting Brian to the front, we had two or three attempts at pulling Stevie B, but he was stuck fast and Brian's input was minimal due to his lack of terratyres.
Steve and Neil had built a makeshift ramp out of bridging ladders, in an effort to help ease the vehicle out of the hole, and the yellow Ibex was now looking firm favourite for a successful recovery. The extra motive power that we needed now arrived as John and Wally suddenly appeared on the slope back at the start, having driven all the way around the outside of the bog in a big arc. But they were facing the wrong way, towards us, and clearly unaware of the gravity of the situation. For a moment there was an air of confusion and a general lack of communication. Maddi came cantering over, and for the first time ever I detected an anxious look on his face, and a note of urgency in his voice. He used the bare minimum of words: "Come on guys. We're losing Stevie B.".
It was the catalyst needed to start a chain reaction of activity, and a frenzied explosion of kinetic energy. With Brian away to one side and safely on stable ground, John turned and hooked up his KERR to the front bridle rope on our truck. A succession of kinetic and nylon ropes stretched away across the swamp to the front of the yellow Ibex. At the signal the two terratyred 240's set off over the snow covered bog, like two demented terriers chasing some startled rabbit. It took two or three attempts to get Steve out, each one more manic than the last, but finally he was free.
Meanwhile, Stevie B was sat, resolute, in the driving seat, his vehicle keeled over and down at an increasingly exaggerated angle. But it was his ship and he was the Captain: If the Ibex was going down, he was going with it! Maddi connected into the kinetic train as locomotive number three, and the last KERR was attached to Stevie. We now had four KERRs in the chain, two of them working in tandem, and various other odd lengths of nylon in there for good measure. The stresses this would put on the recovery points, especially Stevie's, didn't bear thinking about. So we chose not to think about it.
I can't remember whether he came out first pull or second, but I do remember the sensation of being in that bizarre train, as we furiously bungeed our way across the bog for a hundred yards or more, and onto terra firma. Now that's what I call entertainment!
We took a short coffee stop, or maybe it was a valium stop, and tossed a few ideas from side to side with regard to the way forward. Fortunately, in the excitement of trying to keep all of our precious equipment above ground, everyone had forgotten to blame me for the incident. This was great news - it was beginning to look as though I had got away with it!
John and Wally's little detour had provided them with the opportunity to recce an alternative way out, and it was this virgin route that we now cautiously followed. It took us a good while but it was basically stress-free and without incident. Eventually ending up at the base of the middle hill we came across a gaggle of Land Rovers, all seemingly stuck in a small area of massively churned up ground. We knew this bit of ground quite intimately having driven through it twice already, so with careful vehicle placement and judicious use of air-lockers where fitted, (or brute force and bravado in Stevie B's case), we were able to drive through, past the Land Rovers, and up a steep axle twister en route to the top. Maddi and Neil were leading in some style, the newly rejuvenated yellow and black Ibex looking magnificent and purposeful on it's first real outing.
However, something was not quite right. In our haste to make up for the lost time in the mega-bog we had mistakenly taken the first day's aborted "alternative route" up the middle hill. The convoy stopped abruptly, and the message was received to turn around. We all spun and headed back down the little twister and once again towards the stranded Defenders. Had we had plenty of time and some inkling of where they were heading and what they were trying to do, we would naturally have offered them a pull.
Neil's day one recce of the front of hills two and three now came in handy as we quickly picked up the route to the last summit. But it soon became clear that we were driving more or less in someone else's tracks. To our amazement it was very easy going, punctuated only once by a short steep incline which defeated the two non-terratyred Ibex, but which was plain sailing for the other three. Driving all the way to the top without recourse to the winch we arrived at the summit marker, which was not quite on the summit due to it's craggy nature. It was about 1:00pm and the weather conditions were fairly poor.
The difficulties we envisaged had not materialised, so we had made it with time to spare. There was a great feeling of triumph and much hand shaking and photo taking on the top, but our jubilation was tinged with a hint of disappointment when we discovered that the two Jeep Wranglers of Tony Wilson and Roland Czerny had got there first. Well done chaps. Still, we maintain that we completed the challenge in the shortest driven time, having kicked-off around two hours late, finished day one at dusk, and had a leisurely start to day two.
The drive back to the start was an easy one, and we were all in good spirits. Coming steadily down the hillside we had to get the KERRs out on a couple of occasions, to help the non-terratyred trucks through two or three stodgy bits. Before too very long we met up with most of the rest of the field, lining up to drive through a very gloopy stream crossing, with a steep bank to climb on exit. It was here that air-lockers and approach angles became critical, the Ibex team making light work of driving what was a laborious winching exercise for many others.
Worse was to come as we found the Mother-of-all-Bogs at the last stream crossing before the access track. This was a churned hole which was small in size but epic in it's glutinous consistency. There were a couple of Defenders on the other side which had obviously winched themselves over. We picked our spot carefully, and Gran piloted us into the exact position required. The slop put up a bit of a struggle, but the tyres won in the end and we crossed safely to the other side. John came over next, but by now the bog was becoming more determined with every passing vehicle. The KERRs were out again and the two terratyred 240's now worked a double-headed recovery on the rest of the team. Most of the rest of the field, almost all Defenders, realised that this was a tad quicker than resorting to the winches, and that equally there was no chance of driving through on standard off-road rubber. Thus it came to pass that Defender after Defender was KERRed across that last bog by the twin Ibex.
I apologise for the epic length of this tale - it was not planned to be, it just kind of turned out that way. I also make my excuses here and now for any minor inaccuracies and oversights, as much of it was written from memory long after the event.
On behalf of the whole team I would like to thank ......
Brian Hartley and his crew, (minus the bloke, and I know who you are, who sent me into the mega-slop) for the concept and its implementation, which was excellent and most entertaining.
Granville Pool for the ultimate sacrifice .... coming half way across the world and then giving up some of his "Enduro experience" in order to shoot about 10 rolls of film. Could you? Would I? I doubt it. He plays the harmonica quite well too.
Moments to remember:-
The smell of steaming socks mixed with coal smoke and scorched heather.
The tone of Gran's voice and his choice of expletives as he realised that he had left behind certain crucial items of his camping kit.
Seeing for the first time a look of mild concern on Maddi's face as he (only very slightly) raised his voice to explain "we're losing Stevie B".
The cacophony of snoring.
Brian and Dave emerging from their tent along with a 13.5 tog duvet.
Team Thunderbex were:-
The conquest of the peaks was achieved with:-
The vehicles were rigorously prepared by:-
|
Steve Maddison 4x4 1 Water House Farm Station Road Topcliffe Thirsk YO7 3SG |
Foers Engineering Gateway Ind Est The Gateway Parkgate Rotherham S62 6JL |
With further huge amounts of assistance from Patrick Smart.
We enjoyed it. I hope you did.
© Peter Bradley, [Ibex Owners]
URL:/4WD.html 1997