Relationships are tested and bonds are strengthened under all sorts of circumstances, although most couples don’t know how it feels when a poor decision can put you in physical danger. That’s what makes issue 13 so interesting. Not only was this month-long hike in the Swiss Alps a physical test for Nic and her partner James, but it was also a bold way to develop as a couple. Between being tired, sweaty and even scared at times, would they make it to the end of the hike on speaking terms? I’ll say no more. Enjoy the read – and have a look at the Collection if this sounds like an adventure for your summer ‘24 bucket list.
Catherine
Editor, Notes from Outside
I started to run and laugh, a child-like chortle where the giggle caught in my throat as I skipped along the plateau. Somehow my pack no longer felt heavy. I spun around to see James shaking his head and smiling.
It was day 25 of our month-long hike across Switzerland on the Alpine Passes Trail, agruelling 700km hike with a lung-busting 38,000m of ascent. Whether I’d finally found my hiking legs or I’d simply become delirious, I felt on top of the world in that moment. We were approaching Alp Catogne, down to our right was the narrow valley of Le Châtelardand across the other side were the milky turquoise waters of Lac d’Emosson. Whilst it was stunning, it wasn’t my absolute favourite view of the trip, so I’m not sure why I chose this moment to let go of my anxieties and lose myself to the trail. Earlier that morning I’d re-discovered Simon Webbe’s 2006 banger, Coming Around Again, deep in my Spotify playlist as I was hunting for motivational songs to get me through the day. As cheesy as it was, and in spite of it being 17 years since the song was released, 22-year old Nic remembered all the lyrics. I’m 99% sure Simon Webbe wasn’t imagining hiking across a country when he sang it but it certainly gave me a boost that day.
Rewind to day one of the adventure as we stood hand-in-hand at the start point of the Alpine Passes Trail (Swiss National Hiking Route 6). I was nervous. I’d never walked a trail as longas this before. We were aiming to squeeze a 43 stage hiking trail into 31 days and whilst this was totally in the comfort zone of my record-breaking athlete of a boyfriend, for me it was a daunting prospect. With nearly 10 FKTs (Fastest Known Times) in the bank, James is a hiking machine. Optimistically, we could create beautiful memories together, walking hand-in-hand through alpine meadows in bloom, celebrating our love, having the time of our lives. But I was plagued with anxiety that I’d be too slow for him, he’d get snippy with me, there would be nowhere to hide in our worst moments. To top it off we’d both be stinky, tired and irritable. Would we have enough patience to get through the month and come out the other end unscathed?
After the first few days of ‘finding our feet’, we fell into the rhythm of the hike. Each day we woke to the sunrise hitting our tent, stretched and set off walking. I’d love to say that we had long, deep, meaningful chats about our hopes for the future and our regrets from the past as we ascended and descended one pass after another, but conversation inevitably centred around what food we were hoping to buy at the next supermarket. The elusive warm sausage roll that evaded us every time we rolled into town; whether they’d have the little Thomy mayonnaises that were so handy; how much peach iced tea we could drink in one sitting. And cheese, all the cheese.
On the more technical sections I quietened, James knew I was anxious about the route when I stopped chattering. He slowed and helped me overcome my challenges and we worked together. Likewise, when the thunderstorms rolled in, James was terrified. His eyes would widen and his fear was palpable. As someone driven by statistics, I wasn’t as worried. People had lived and worked in these mountains for centuries, the chances of us getting struck by lightning were slim. Regardless of the reason – physical or mental – we agreed to always go as slow as the person who was struggling.
But what do you do when you’re both struggling? Well, day 28 showed us exactly that. We left our mountain hut at Lac de Salanfe in pouring rain, knowing that the forecast was for it to abate over the next hour. We marched along the flat section alongside the lake before we branched off to gain the higher ground and the top of the pass. Here we slowed, getting judgemental looks from the surrounding cows, who were no doubt wondering what on earth we were doing there. By the time we were a third of the way up to the col, the visibility had decreased and the rain had turned to snow.
At first it was light and slushy, but it soon settled and was quite deep. It had made everything almost completely white. If it wasn’t for the visible red route markers, we wouldn’t have known if we were on the trail at all. The ground ran off quite steeply from right to left, one slip and we could slide down the mountainside, with no ice axe to arrest our fall.
My heart was pounding. We stopped to discuss what we should do. Turning back on a linear long distance trail is something you shouldn’t ever have to do. We were supposed to be going forwards, not backwards. We only had four days of our hike left and we’d already booked our flight home. There were so many practical reasons to keep going forwards and we were both frustrated to be in this situation. Uncertain if the path would get better around the corner we carried on, but after another twenty minutes, it was clear we couldn’t continue. Neither of us wanted to be the one to make the call though. James felt the ground shift beneath him and fear was etched across his face. “We shouldn’t be here - we should have turned back 200 metres ago,” he said in an exasperated tone. “Well let’s turn back now then!” I replied tensely. But he didn’t move, neither of us wanted to go forwards, but we didn’t want to go backwards either.
We sat with our feelings for a moment – we were scared and disappointed, aware that if we turned back we wouldn’t complete the full trail. We also felt responsible for each other. But more than anything else I just needed to create a new plan and put it into action. So we turned back. Safely back in the hut, licking our wounds over a peppermint tea, we apologised to each other for snapping. Couples don’t generally put themselves into situations where the consequences of a poor decision could put the other person in danger. It’s a test that most couples just don’t face. But we were safe. We were going to have to re-route through the valley, but we’d roll with the punches and embrace it as part of the adventure.
By the end of the route we’d slept in a tent for most of the trip, stayed injury-free, overcome frightening weather/natural disasters and I’d become fitter and more mentally resilient. I didn’t want the adventure to end. Sitting outside the tent on that 30th night in front of an epic sunset, I realised how far we’d come since day 1, both individually and as a couple. We’d built a ‘mindful moment’ at the end of each day into our daily routine. Looking at the view, feeling the breeze on our faces and the grass under our hands, listening to the streamor the birdsong, taking a deep breath in and being appreciative. I was thankful for the trail, I was thankful for all the cheese and I was thankful for James.
Words and photos by Nic Hardy
Nic Hardy is an adventurer from Sheffield, UK. After dedicating over a decade of her life to public sector IT management, she quit her job and sold her house to venture into life as an adventurer and outdoor writer. She’s since summited Mount Kilimanjaro, trekked in the M’Goun region of the Atlas Mountains in Morocco, solo wild camped in remote locations like the far north west of Scotland, and completed many mulit-day hikes in Europe as well as on her own doorstep in England.