Adventure storytelling blues

I’ve spent so much of my time over the last nine months reminiscing and sharing stories of my time walking the TCT, not just in the form of presentations but also with friends. As with any story that’s fresh in your mind, the first few times you share it you’re clearly retelling the story as it happened (or at least you think you are). Your role in the story is evident, it really did happen to you. You might occasionally exaggerate something, but more or less, the story is told as it occurred and as the storyteller it feels as if you’re reliving your experience. For me that’s where my enthusiasm comes from.

I’m not a particularly natural storyteller as I’ve always been someone who prefers to listen to stories and my inclination is not to speak out in a group and share my own. The sharing part is something I’ve only started to work at (and have a long way to go). I found the act of telling the story of my TCT thru-hike in front of a crowd actually quite enjoyable. Although I was certainly nervous the first few times, the nervousness evolved into excited anticipation as I found my confidence upon realising that because these were first-hand experiences there was nothing to memorise and risk forgetting in front of a crowd. I simply had to choose which stories to tell and offer my personal reflections on those situations. There is of course something to be said for remembering a good way to tell a story, but that’s something else.

Part of why I’ve got better at public speaking this year (at least I think I have - I’ve certainly still got a long way to go) was because of my desire to relive those experiences and communicate them in such a way so that the audience can get a glimpse of the feeling of that same experience. Part of the ability to do that properly is the memory being fresh in my mind.

I locked down for about 6 weeks around New Years to work on my January exams and so wasn’t doing a whole lot of talking at all, let alone sharing stories of the TCT. Those six weeks put some distance between me and that expedition - something I didn’t realise I needed to be able to wholeheartedly move forward onto the next projects. That distance made the storytelling difficult for me though. When I returned to doing talks, I found recalling the intricacies of the experiences more challenging – that’s understandable as your memories fade over time. 

More significantly, the time-off introduced a degree of separation from the stories, they no longer felt like they were something I had lived through but were instead just stories I was telling. They still make me smile when I share them but the proximity to the experience and therefore the intimacy with it, is lost. The enthusiasm lessens and is harder to summon, and so the talk becomes less entertaining and impactful. Therein lies a vicious circle within the vicious circle of post-expedition blues.

I’ve been back in Armenia for almost a month now. Just being here has reinvigorated my fondness for the memories of last summer by reminding me of certain intricacies whilst maintaining the distance that time has put between myself and those experiences allowing me to move on.

I think that’s all just a long-winded way of saying that although it’s fun to remind yourself of fond memories from past adventures, going down the rabbit hole of attempting to relive those experiences in some way that lacks the authenticity and characteristics of the original experience (such as by storytelling) ultimately provides little return. That’s not a knock against the act of storytelling through public talks but instead, perhaps it's a realisation that to continue to progress, my purpose of sharing the stories will have to shift.

10-minutes of storytelling at YesStories!

The Drin

In Easter this year, my friend Mark and I completed the first source to sea journey of the Drin river through Kosovo and Albania. The trip was supported by Tim Moss and the contributors of the Next Challenge Grant which made this trip possible.

Here's a link to a (I hope) entertaining blog post on the events of the expedition.

https://thenextchallenge.org/kayaking-kosovo-albania/

Empathy

I recently flicked through my TCT diary and found a piece of paper given to me by an old man who took me into his home for a night. The piece of paper shows his name and DOB as well as the names of his children and their DOBs. He handed it to me as I was leaving his home the following morning to the event described in the passage below. I tell this story as part of my TCT talk but as I had thought I had lost the piece of paper, the story began to feel as if it didn't happen. Seeing this piece of paper again, and being reminded through physical evidence that this did indeed happen to me got me reminiscing about the experience, so here's what I wrote when sat in my tent a few days later.

Across the table sat Mr Sirakan Setrakovich Gigalov, the fork shaking in his hands that bore the indisputable marks of years of labour as he ate his plate of pasta. Every so often he would look up to push the plate of homemade cheese and vegetables closer to me each time, encouraging to take more than my fair share. The silence had been undisturbed for the thirty minutes or so since the 70-year-old Mr Gigalov had beckoned me into his home, except for a knocking at the door by a young boy to deliver a multipack of cigarettes. Finished with the pasta, he pulled a book from the window ledge behind him to take out a collection of photographs, pulled his chair close to mine and pointed to the ring on his finger and then a middle-aged woman in the photographs before drawing his thumb across his throat and pointing to the ground to convey the passing of his wife. Not knowing what to say or do, I nodded my head and looked back at the photographs of his family wondering what life was like almost half a century ago in southern Georgia under the Soviet Union. Silently, a few tears ran down his face as he poured each of us a shot of chacha, lifting his glass without verbalising a toast but simply a warm smile before tilting his head back.

Solitude

An updated version of this article is published on Explorers Connect: https://www.explorersconnect.com/inspire-stories/2017/10/4/hiking-the-transcaucasian-trail

I remember sitting at my desk, trawling through the ultra-hiking blogs and coming across this one article with the rather somber line that a successful 'thru-hike is about managing discomforts'. A line like that completely comprehends the romanticised notion of a thru-hike; being in solitude yet in good company amongst nature for months on end. That quote faded from memory until 5 weeks ago when on May 15th I began the first attempt at thru-hiking the proposed Transcaucasian Trail (TCT) of Armenia and Georgia. It's been rattling around my head ever since.

Day 1 felt like trial by fire, at 5am I headed south from Meghri towards the border with Iran. The sun hadn't risen yet and within ten minutes I had 6 unpleasantly large dogs at my back, the sound of my walking poles clapping together as I tried to scare them was the only thing keeping them at an acceptable distance as they tried to out bark each other as groups of dogs often do. But that's fine. Uncomfortable for sure, but expected. I can deal with that.

I reached the border and followed the road East towards Nrnadzor. From 7am until 2pm I was stopped four times by soldiers along the border. The first were three Armenians working hard at getting stoned in an Russian truck hidden in a disused tunnel by the side of the road. After trying to talk my way through with the aid of hand signals to no avail, Vahagn kindly explained the situation over the phone. Quite amused by my lofty plans they offered me a ride and some Pepsi. Later on, I was stopped by more Armenian and Russian soldiers for passport checks and questioning. Uncomfortable, but manageable.

By late afternoon I had completed the ascent onto the ridge between Arevik NP and Shikahogh State Reserve. The clag started to roll in and the thunderstorm began to bellow. Fortunately I was able to take shelter in some empty temporary shepherd structures. The husky from Nrnadzor that had decided to become my travelling companion (aptly named Transcaucanine by UBES) was freaking out and attempting to leap through the window into the building. Uncomfortable, but manageable.

The physical pain of consecutive 30km days under relentless heat and challenging terrain. Uncomfortable, but manageable. You get the picture.

The days rolled by and I began to acclimate to the changeable weather, trekking along jeep tracks through ankle deep mud, through thorn bushes and knee high flower fields, along exposed ridges and through narrow gorges. The significance of the discomforts of hunger, thirst and physical pain begin to fade, for that illusive experience of momentary bliss in the mountains is worth every hungry and footsore mile. The only way I can describe the euphoria you feel when you complete a section of genuine danger is as awe; instantaneously experiencing the same environment afresh, with the ecstasy of disbelief exploding through your nerve endings; the solitude of that experience makes it all the more special.

But solitude is a funny thing. I'm a quiet person. I've always considered myself to be comfortable in solitude. I find it easier to sit in silence rather than begin (or continue) a conversation. I enjoy walking alone in good or bad weather. The thought that social remoteness would become an issue didn't even cross my mind during the planning stages. Instead, I considered the environmental remoteness and the impact it would have on resupplies or on the delay/complete lack of emergency support.

The hospitality of the Armenian people has been like nothing I've ever experienced. No matter the time of day, no matter the location, the longest I've gone without being invited in for food, vodka, coffee and tea has been two days. They would then insist that I take some lavash, cheese, tomatoes and cucumbers for the journey. I'm incredibly grateful for those experiences. I enjoyed them. Yet in the latter weeks those experiences filled me with simultaneous love and melancholy; love for the hospitality and friendliness of these people, yet a pensive sadness for the restricted social interactions that comes with language barriers. A dispiriting thought, it had only been 5 weeks after all. That feeling of social remoteness is uncomfortable and barely manageable.

Arriving at the TCT Armenia HQ in Dilijan came at the perfect time. Being able to communicate again clearly felt refreshing, rejuvenating even. From the 'deep' conversations to the hilarious talking shit for the sake of talking shit conversations, they've been invaluable. It's amusing to think I wasn't going to take part in the two-week trailbuilding camp because I couldn't afford it (thank you to the Knowlson Trust for the grant) - in hindsight I'd have paid twice over for that experience. I have trouble believing that I'd have been able to continue for more than another couple of weeks at the most.

Despite this discomfort there's no way I would have rather spent the last 5 weeks. The moments of blissful solitude complemented by the people I've met from all over the world has made me feel at home in Armenia. A country foreign to each of us.

There's no real conclusion to this apart from a clearer grasp of the idea that even when you're on trail seeking some level of solitude, people are what sustain you. Sounds pretty obvious to me now. And of course whoever wrote that article was spot on - managing discomfort is at the heart of thru-hiking.

These are just my notes about solitude fresh off the trail.