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The weekend of 3rd/4th/5th April saw a small selection of northern "eventers" descend upon the otherwise relatively peaceful Scottish Borders town of Duns. Duns is the home town of Neil "Revver" Redpath, famous UK tyre vendor and Ibex owning expert off-roader. It also just so happens that Duns is surrounded by some truly wonderful off-road terrain, most of which will remain for a long time etched in the memories of those lucky enough to be in attendance. I, for one, will never forget the slog through the intriguingly named "Toot Wood", and the devious manner in which it stole a piece of my Ibex. Though it was billed as a non-competitive "fun" mini-event, Neil had put together a very professional roadbook extending to nine pages on day one and eight pages on day two. It's always good fun to run with the terratrip and Patrick and I had killed a bit of time re-calibrating it on the journey up. After a lot of trial and error we both realised that "291" had a certain ring to it. It wasn't strictly essential to have a terratrip as we were all running in one big happy group - just as well because John and David Foers had no "terra", CB, or mobile phone! Several inches of rain had fallen in the week prior to the event and this resulted in large chunks of the roadbook being "timed out", but they'll still be there for next time.
Day one saw us navigating on tarmac around to the first "special" section. After a short stretch on what could have been a green lane we turned left down to a tiny stream. Or rather it would have been a tiny stream had it not been in flood, along with every other watercourse in the area. Keith Hutchings and Kevin Cheesemond made the crossing first in Keith's vehicle but the modified Ninety had a hell of a job climbing the bank on the other side. It was not difficult to see why as the bank was basically a bog, a state of affairs which we were soon to become all too familiar with. Neil brought his impressive two-piece bridging ladders out and the other four vehicles, all Ibex, crossed with their assistance. The next section was nothing less than a complete quagmire and despite every vehicle trying for a fresh piece of ground all five got stuck at some point in time. It looked pretty chaotic as every motor was winching and all were seemingly pointing in different directions. It must be remembered that the whole weekends driving was taking place on virgin (private) land, never before tackled by a vehicle of any kind, and this was pioneering stuff we were involved in. Often the ground would look OK only to consume the first motor to attempt to cross it; the rest of course had no chance. It was around here that Neil calmly informed us all that we were now running behind schedule. Once sorted here we had another stream to cross, but this time a full sized
one and again with a healthy volume of water passing along it. The
twin-lockered vehicles made it through OK but the rear-only-lockered ones
struggled slightly with the far bank. A long stretch of green lane was
taken at about half randonnee pace and we finally popped out onto tarmac for
the next navigation section.
We headed off down another green track punctuated by some big puddles, finally taking a left turn into some woods. The route was marked out as straight down a long slippery bank, traverse across at the bottom , and then winch back up the other side. Patrick and I were leading the convoy and this seemed like an appropriate juncture for us to swap seats. "Juha" then decided that it would be fun to go down the slippery hill riding the clutch, and we made the descent in about ten seconds with trees hurtling past on either side! The other four drivers didn't share Patrick's thirst for danger and opted for a degree of engine braking, thus coming down in a more conventional style. As we winched back up the far side of the bank it must have got a bit sweaty in the Ibex, and unbeknown to me Patrick had opened the sunroof. Coming back out onto the track we followed the roadbook left towards the River Whiteadder. The Whiteadder is no stream but a full blown Scottish river and on inspection we decided that to try and ford it in these conditions would be sheer folly, and would probably end up with the vehicles in the North Sea. It looked to be at least bonnet-top depth and the water was running at about 15-18mph. Even a diagonal downstream "Icelandic style" crossing was out of the question as the only exit available was upstream. We turned the vehicles around and headed back along the green track. Patrick must have hit the biggest and deepest of the "puddles" at about 25mph and it was only then that I discovered he had opened the sunroof, as about four or five gallons of filthy brown water cascaded in through the ceiling. Another tarmac ramble led us to a turn-off into dense forestry. Neil
announced that we would tackle a short "half hour" section and then break
for lunch. I surveyed the first part of the "half hour" section on foot - a
seemingly tricky, steep, off-camber drop-down into a major bog hole;
traverse a tiny brook, and then immediately winch up a near vertical bank on
the other side. This was going to be an interesting
half hour.
Maddi and Stevie B went first, the ladders coming out again for the traversing of the boggy brook. The bank on the other side was seriously steep initially, then easing a little but still with a good distance to go before level ground. Keith was bringing up the rear of the convoy and it was here that we suffered our first casualty - the Ninety lost half of its exhaust system winching through the trees. The next section was a long, straight pull up a greasy, vague track between the trees. Maddi was winching his way up with John on the back, and we tagged on behind the pair as vehicle number three. It was teamwork at its best - the lead vehicle would winch with the next vehicle stationary and free-spooling - then the lead vehicle would anchor and the next vehicle would winch "up the cable" to catch up, and so on and so forth. Everything was going well until Maddi reached the top and disconnected, peeling off to the right ready for a very slippery descent. We were stationary in free-spool mode and John was approaching the top of the hill when he found some traction. The offer of some grip was more than John could resist and he nailed it. Standing over the winch I watched in horror as the drum screamed, like we had just hooked up a Black Marlin or something, the cable paying out at the alarming rate of 4 or 5 feet a second. Without CB radio John was oblivious of the situation, and the frantic cries of "WHOA!" were absorbed by the trees. At the outset we were about two thirds down the cable and as the last six wraps were about to depart at lightning speed I decided that a defensive position was highly desirable, otherwise I was in line for a potentially rapid and singularly painful vasectomy (or worse). I turned my back, protected the wedding tackle as best I could, and waited for the "ping". The cable detached itself from the copper cleat and wanged away up the hill somewhere. We had just become casualty number two. Another team effort resulted in the temporary reunion of winch and cable and it was not long before we were squared up at the top of the very slimy return route. Having seen Maddi and John slip-slidin' their way down the hill I decided to let Patrick go it alone, just in case he opted for the thrilling "clutch and brakes" method. He made a nicely controlled descent which proves something that I have suspected for a long time: he deliberately tries to scare me! The whole group of five vehicles finally cleared the section some three hours after the start: Next time I am "over the border" will someone please remind me to buy a watch that reads correctly in "Scottish Standard Time"? Lunch was finally taken at about 4pm in an excellent little country café.
Exactly where it was I have no idea but the rolls were superb, the tea was
like nectar, and the lobster soup was lovely, if you like lobster soup.
Halfway down the bowl I decided I didn't but it was obvious that the rest of
the group did.
A brief amble down the road led us to the next stage - Toot Wood. We dived off the main road into the wood down a pretty steep drop. A short run along the "flat and muddy" led us to a general regrouping as we sized up the next challenge: enter the stream via an almost vertical drop of about two cars length. The running order through the wood was destined to remain the same as the order of entry; there was only one torturous route available through Toot Wood. We didn't know it yet but "Toot" was like Wooler on steroids. Keith and Kevin were at the front of the group in the Ninety and they elected to forwards drive the drop into the stream. It was a brave manoeuvre. The Defender slammed deep into the silt at the edge of the gushing stream, and fortunately retained its handstand position. Keith's protruding winch housing had dug deep into the stream bed (left) and acted as a very effective anchor, and he now needed to winch himself forwards to get the back of the vehicle down. The next four vehicles were all Ibex and the 85 degree approach angle would, on this occasion, be working against us. With such a steep drop and nothing but big round lumps of rubber in front of us, ready to act as pivots, I had visions of the first Ibex (Maddi's) doing a neat front somersault a la Olga Korbut. The voting was quick and unanimous: We would all winch down forwards via a snatch block off a convenient tree, each vehicle being let down gently by the one behind. John, with his centre mounted winch system, would go last letting himself down forwards. I lowered Maddi's 250 down the bank, Neil lowered me down, John lowered Neil down, and then let himself down into the water. By now the party was just starting to go full swing. It was dark and humid in the wood, and the overcast sky switched intermittently between light rain and steady drizzle. The vegetation was lush even this early in the year and I caught sight of the odd wild primula in flower, but everywhere was awash with watercress and bog plants. The whole place was completely untamed and untouched, a maze of young self-seeded saplings amongst mature trees, fallen timber, and decaying carcasses of once tall specimens. In the distance I could hear the stifled rasp of Neil's chainsaw, whilst all about the foreground came the excited gush of busy water over ancient stratified rock. Very quickly we were out of the stream and onto the bank on the right, where Maddi was having serious problems hauling his truck through the bogland. A double line pull with an 8,500lb Husky across a fairly flat piece of ground with the winch straining meant that something was snagged. Steve knew it full well and asked me to investigate but I could see nothing. The snag later turned out to be a hidden stump but in all that "cat shit" it was totally invisible. Following Steve onto the bank I could not believe how completely churned the ground was by the passage of just two vehicles (the left hand rut was already 2.5 feet deep). Patrick was up front assisting Keith with the tree felling operation and my "new" route slightly to the left of Maddi's merely resulted in the Ibex being "hung up" at roof level by an adolescent tree on the nearside. It was here that we witnessed Maddi's "junior chainsaw" for the first time. A tiny thing with no more than a ten inch bar it looked like something that might pop out of a cracker at Christmas, along with a mock-Chinese proverb ("man with small chainsaw never loose leg" ?). I half expected it to be driven by clockwork but no, it did have an engine. And it also had a very effective one-handed cutting operation. The errant tree was removed from the nearside by the baby chainsaw and I was semi-mobile again, albeit minus the "top hat" on the snorkel. At the end of this major bog section the route turned 90 left around a fallen tree and down into the stream again. This involved winching up to a point just past the tree, then re-rigging the strop on the far bank and hauling the front end sideways through the slop - not a manoeuvre which you would undertake by choice, but one forced upon us by necessity. John and David assisted with my truck and though progress was slow it went pretty much without a hitch. Now we were in the stream proper and destined to remain so for some short distance: You couldn't even walk along the bank as I had discovered by trying. Patrick arrived back and we switched places again, with me volunteering to navigate from outside the vehicle. This was not my greatest ever career move; although I had wellies on the only way forward on foot was up the stream bed, and the water came up to the knees in many places. Keeping balance whilst rock-hopping was something of an art and required the use of leg muscles that I never knew I had until the next morning. Before long we came upon our next obstacle, a constriction in the stream with a sharp protrusion of bedrock in the middle and a mini plunge pool at either side. Maddi took it down the left side and made it through first time, with a bit of banging and scraping. I thought I knew better and directed Patrick to his right, however with each attempt the Ibex was deflected onto the rock and hung up on the front diff. We moved some boulders and persevered for about ten minutes but every time the rock had us by the diff. Eventually we gave up and opted for the left hand route and on about the third attempt (and throwing caution to the wind) the Ibex was through. What we didn't know at the time was that the craggy outcrop had cunningly ripped the diff guard off and we had therefore been merrily banging the diff casing against the rock. Hot on the heels of this obstacle came the next, a cluster of deep holes in the stream bed with a few fallen trees thrown in for good measure. Again the 250 wheelbase outperformed us as the 240 seemed to find a hole for each wheel simultaneously. For every case where this happens there is another where the reverse is true, the 240 outwitting the 250, and it was interesting to observe this phenomenon several times during the whole weekend. Eventually we got out of the holes and managed to power the front boulers up the bank ready for the next section which would at least take place on dry land, or rather what very nearly passed as dry land in Toot Wood. Maddi followed the marked route in Keith's massive solo ruts and we all watched in amazement as the ground attempted to swallow the 250 Ibex whole. The next hundred yards of terrain required almost continuous winching, invariably with a snatch block, and I lost count of the number of times we sought a fresh anchor point, re-wrapped, and re-rigged. Our forward progress could now simply be measured in yards per hour and "Toot" was turning into a veritable Scottish mini-Darien Gap, except that we were never more than a few hundred feet from the main road. The jungle atmosphere was further heightened when Keith announced that he had just eyeballed a giant spider! We finally got the first three vehicles into some sort of a stable parked position when word came through on the bush telegraph that John was having all sorts of trouble way back in "the cat shit". The reward for going last was the dubious privilege of battling with the ground at its very worst, and John's rear-only-lockered 240 could muster no more than a 6000lb maximum pull on a single line. Maddi waded back on foot to assist, while the front runners manhandled vehicles number 2 and 3 around an extremely tight tree combination. Eventually the sound of approaching Ibex could be heard; Neil and John appeared around the corner, scrambled as best they could up the bank, and made ready for the long haul to the "tree trap". By now it was very gloomy indeed and natural light photographs had been impossible for some time. The plan had been to finish at about 7:00pm but the itinerary had gone out of the window some while ago, along with the roadbook. Our main concern now was to get out of Toot Wood, take a shower, track down a beer, and capture some dinner. "Toot" however, had other ideas. The front three vehicles departed the wood via the stream and a steep uneven bank, parking up on a firm forest track. You wouldn't class it as an easy exit at all, but as nobody got stuck it certainly had to be classed as "easier" than the previous sections. Back in the wood Neil's Ibex had fallen victim to a determined "Toot": Half way through "hundred yard alley" the 250 had burnt up a winch solenoid. An in-situ repair was undertaken and before long the much needed 10,000lb Husky was serviceable again and we were able to push and shove the well-fendered Ibex through the "tree trap". John had all but made it through "the alley" when his engine stalled. Although we had been running without lights the strain of continuous winching was beginning to take its toll. John's attempts to re-start the motor merely resulted in the all too familiar "click … click …" of a dying battery. By now it was almost fully dark and various shadowy figures scurried off to fetch jump leads and spare battery. He was never likely to be stuck for long as my truck boasted a brand new fully charged 850 amp Optima, but in the 240 it is somewhat inconveniently situated under the passenger seat. Kevin suggested that giving the battery a two minute rest would do the trick; it did and the Ibex fired first time. The last vehicle was manhandled through the "tree trap" in double quick time, as you might expect from the combined effort of ten blokes who are hungry, thirsty, tired, wet, starting to get cold, and hallucinating visions of full pints on imaginary bars. I glanced at the terratrip as we left Toot Wood and it read 1.60 kilometres. We had covered 1600 metres (minus wheel slippage) in some four hours … less than four hundred metres per hour in five of the best equipped, road-legal four wheel drives in the United Kingdom. Between us we had: One Defender 90 special, four Ibex (two 240's), five winches (two Huskys), seven ARB air-lockers and one Quaiffe, with the whole shooting match powered by Tdi engines and shod with new or nearly new BFG MT rubber. Back at the hotel I asked Maddi how Toot Wood compared with The Webster Trophy. "About the same but on the Webster you do it for two and a half days and a night solid. And you have to camp of course and carry all your kit with you, even though you are coming back to the same camp area. Oh, and you loose about half a stone in bodyweight". I should also add that entrants' pay £300 a team to be put through this torture. I didn't take much rocking to sleep that night but I certainly found it hard work getting up the next morning. Keith and Kevin had returned home late Saturday evening, unable to stay for the Sunday session, and John was only in "half-playing mode" (though David was keen to partake fully in Dad's motor!), so the second day would predominantly feature the other three Ibex. The roadbook was dished out and soon we were off again. The first section of day two was an absolute belter. Neil had obtained
permission for us to drive along a lovely little stream which was running
orange-brown with the mud coming down it. The stream ran alongside one of
the local "A" roads and the entry into it was something else. With John
parked on the edge of the road acting as both ground anchor and warning
beacon, we all lowered ourselves straight down the steep bank and into the
water. Driving past this same spot later on in the day, it looked for all
the world like someone had suffered a nasty accident here and ended up in
the drink!
A long run along the stream bed led us to a narrow section beside a small island. Some farm gates had been very nearly washed away and John had to assist with his vehicle as they were winched from the far side back into their rightful spot, so as to allow our through passage. From here on Neil had laid out an undulating course which was basically stream-bank, bank-stream, stream-bank, etc., etc. The banks for the most part had the consistency of cold rice pudding, with odd areas that were more like stiff wallpaper paste. The stream had all sorts of hidden horrors lying in wait ready to catch a complacent driver. One particularly difficult stream-island-stream combination had Neil on top form, and it was not difficult to see how he had obtained the nickname "Revver". When you've co-owned and evented a 3.5 tonne ex-Camel Defender 110 (with some considerable success I might add) I suppose you get used to the "balls-out-and-nail-it" method. The brand new twin-lockered, bespoke event-spec 250 was a spectacular sight as it came roaring across the soft uneven ground. At the next crossing Patrick and I decided to aim for a river exit slightly to the left of the previous pair. Unfortunately the motor was having none of it, so I decided to simply stay in the stream and drive around a big horseshoe bend. For some unknown reason the Ibex got stuck and started to list to port by good few degrees, which resulted in a large intake of water on the navigator's side. It was clear to me that this was in no way the driver's fault but was a quite blatant and glaring error on the navigator's part, along with the underlying ground not behaving in the manner which it obviously should have done. Working on the established principal that you are never stuck in a twin-lockered Ibex unless you are down to the door handles in slop I shunted the motor back and forth a little, which merely increased the "angle of dangle" to a highly impressive 44.9 degrees. K388 HKU was now doing a good impression of "Titanic", with "Juha" down amongst the water in third class and me sitting high and dry on the bridge. With a last determined lunge backwards we hit a tree (which I swear had not been there a few seconds before) and lost radio contact with the outside world as the CB mike was dislodged and fell into the aqua. A final blast forwards saw us mobile again, with the back end (unusually) slightly rearranged and a few kilos of liquid ballast to dispose of. I was rather surprised that Patrick did not congratulate me on this manoeuvre as I considered it to be quite possibly "my finest hour". We struggled around the "horseshoe bend" without any power steering, which was pretty hard work with all that water on board. I mentioned the "system loss" to the engineer ("Juha") but he showed not the slightest concern, merely concentrating on bailing out the navigator's footwell and complaining about wet feet. Soon we were out of the stream, back on the tarmac, and then almost immediately parked-up and enjoying a splendid buffet lunch served directly from the back of Val Redpath's little hatchback. If only she could follow us around on all such little jaunts. After lunch John and David said their farewells, "Juha" found it necessary to hit some part of the steering gear very hard with a large hammer, and before long we were off again, this time aiming for higher ground which was densely forested. From here on the weekend was to wind down gently as the off-roading eased slightly and the scenery improved somewhat. We took in some superb private forestry tracks, one of which was the steepest, straightest, most continuously uniform incline imaginable - not difficult in any way but a great drive nonetheless. A few miles further down the road we found ourselves bouling along a field-edge track en route to a high-level extensive training area reputedly used by the one and only Ronnie Dale. For some reason the native gorse hillside had recently been ploughed, presumably to try and grow something more useful (like anything at all), and driving down the gentle slope it soon became apparent that the underlying soil (read mud) was the sort that has nothing but contempt for four wheel drives. Going down was one thing but coming back up the same hill seemed likely to prove a tad more difficult. We had a good long run through the high forest tracks, and in many places I noticed marker tapes in yellow and black with the "Camel" logo prominently emblazoned. A regional training/selection ground maybe? In truth, and compared with the previous day, it was all very relaxed driving for both pilot and co-pilot alike, the only serious bit being a vicious off-camber climb which Neil must have searched long and hard for. As the front runner he was also the only driver to make it unaided, which suggests to me that he gave it a good polish on the way up! Either way it obviously pleased him greatly and Maddi was overheard muttering darkly "I can't let him get away with this, I must get a front locker"! Finally we arrived back at the ploughed hillside and made ready for the gentle ascent up the slimy "track". It is impossible to describe the physical nature of the mud except to say that if you walked fifteen paces through it then your boots weighed twenty pounds each. As a tyre tread-filling compound it was without equal. Neil was first to go and he took a long run at the straight bit before a 90 right. He never got to the turn. About twenty attempts later (with ever increasing speed and all four driven wheels throwing mud in every direction) he just made it around the corner before grinding to a halt. At this point in time I actually thought we would need to get the ground anchors out and start winching, just to get out of a ploughed field. Such embarrassing thoughts obviously did not feature in Neil's mind and with a last frenzied attempt he made it around the corner, and somehow found enough traction to stagger to the top of the hill. Maddi made it in about three attempts, and we managed it in one (though admittedly on wider "Moab" tyres, aired-down, and after the front pair had flung all the yuk off the surface and dug down to something a little drier underneath). It was a particularly humbling finish, and in one way also a fitting end to what had been a truly memorable weekend. The five vehicles had carried us through the most difficult terrain imaginable, and it is all too easy to get complacent and over-confident. Just when you start to think that your four wheel drive is unstoppable, you can be sure that there is a flat field somewhere nearby ready to have it for breakfast. Many, many thanks to Neil and Val Redpath, and the various landowners of Duns. Roll on "Murk Wood '99" - with a bit of luck my diff-guard will still be there ... just where I left it. -
Peter Bradley,
1998 Go to the
UK-4WD
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Foers
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