Day 2, June 2, 2011 Land's End to Trewellard

The Angel of the Mendips


The Start



The signpost says 874 miles to John O’Groats. The joke around here is that 874 miles is the straight-line distance – a straight line passing through the Irish Sea. Today, I felt as if I walked (or swam) the full 874 miles. The trail passes through excellent coastal scenery, and many historical tin mines. I was not in a mood to enjoy any of that, and was totally wiped out by the time I reached my destination.

There are many possible reasons: jet lag, difficult terrain, age, etc. But the real reason is that my backpack is too heavy. The other conditions may have contributed, but the weight is just too much. The sole reason for my pack being over-weight is the quantity of maps I am carrying.



Directional Sign

 George and Ann are holding the maps for northern England and Scotland, and will deliver them to me when we meet. That accounts for 1/3 of the total maps, and I’m carrying the other 2/3 – 20 maps. When I walked across Ireland, I had a total of 12 maps, and I didn’t have the added weight of a computer. It’s pretty clear that I’m not going to be able to finish this walk carrying all those maps.

Some End to Enders solve the weight problem by having the maps mailed to them at various points along the route. That requires local assistance, which George and Ann can’t presently provide since they are in Utah. Other End to Enders use electronic mapping programs on their I-phones, which requires technical skills that I don’t have. I can mail a few maps ahead and pick them up when I arrive at a destination, but that requires having room reservations farther in advance than I want to do.



Lunch -- Cornish Pasty and Cornish Milk

 Yesterday, Donald Gray, who has been corresponding with me for over a year, sent me an email offering to be my map depository for Southern England. Donald is an avid walker, and lives in the Mendips Hills southern England. He has developed a delightful reputation for unannounced appearances on the trail and walking for a day with other End to Enders. He obviously anticipated my problem, and offered to provide in Southern England what George and Ann are providing in the north.

So tomorrow, I will mail to Donald 10 maps, and will mail six more to a B&B at which I will stay in a few weeks. I’ve already got a plan in place to mail George my used maps. I’m also going to send him the duffel bag which was necessary for checking my gear for the flight over. The total reduction will get me below the maximum I can comfortably carry.

In addition to being a depository for my maps, Donald Gray is also a repository of history of place names in southern England. The origin of place names has long been of interest to me, and I have studied the source of Yosemite place names. Southern England has some wonderful place names, and I’m looking forward to Donald’s explanations when he returns my maps in a few weeks.

If I'm successful in completing this walk, it is because there are many people who will make it possible.  At the conclusion I will acknowledge all of them. For now, though, I want to thank Donald Gray, the Angel of the Mendips.

© 2011 Ken Klug

Day 1, June 1, 2011 -- Pirates in Penzance

My flight to London arrived 7:45 am. After clearing immigration and customs I took the Heathrow Express train to London’s Paddington Station, where I bought a one-way train ticket to Penzance. I arrived in Penzance mid-afternoon. My B&B was a mile from the train station. Since time wasn’t an issue, I opted to take the walk rather than take a bus or taxi. The weather was cool, breezy and dry.

After checking into my B&B, I decided to look for Penzance’s famous pirates. These aren’t the same as the so-called pirates of Somalia, who are nothing more than terrorist thugs. No, Penzance’s pirates are the real thing, the fabled swashbucklers of yore, of Errol Flynn and Robert Louis Stevenson.

I’m not one to suffer from romantic delusions, so I anticipated that modern medical techniques had probably relieved pirates from peg legs and hooks. But I still expected to find rugged men with sabers, wearing 3-cornered hats sporting big feathers. And an eye patch wasn’t totally out of the question. Aargh.



Pirate's Inn

 Alas, I couldn’t find a pirate anywhere in Penzance, until I spotted the Pirate’s Inn.  Where better to find a real pirate than at their own inn?  I know that some of my detractors would assume that I was more attracted by the “real ales” sign than the prospect of meeting actual pirates, but some people always look for the worst.



Maria, Becky, and Richard

 So to prove them wrong, I went to the beer garden, where I met Richard, Becky and Maria. They denied being pirates, of course, but they were drinking beer just like real pirates. Then they happened to mention that – get this, Danielle F. – they mentioned that they learned to roll their own cigarettes on Mauritius. It doesn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to know that the Indian Ocean is a hotbed of pirate activity. And pirates always roll their own cigarettes.

In her defense, Maria said she was starting to design and sew clothes. I knew better; being a trained lawyer, I interrogated her until she let it slip that she’s actually using purples and pinks – which we all know to be colors fancied by pirates. Richard and Becky have their own car-parking business, catering to “people who sail to the Scilly Islands” off the coast of Penzance. Now I ask you, who do you think is sailing off the coast of Penzance, if not pirates.

So, bolstered by my success in finding actual pirates in Penzance, I’m looking forward to starting my walk tomorrow. Coincidently, I’ll be staying in St. Ives on June 3. I wonder what my detractors will make of that.

© 2011 Ken Klug

The Yanks Are Coming!!

Last week, Jack Frost of Arizona started walking from Land’s End to John O’Groats. Jack is reporting his journey at http://lejogjack.wordpress.com/

I’m planning to start in his footsteps next week. Now, this may not seem like an invasion, but given that few are presently walking End to End, two Americans must be a pretty high percentage.

Mother Nature is already throwing up her defenses – ash from Iceland’s Grimsvotn volcano. This is different from last year’s Eyjafjollajokull volcano. Iceland is a delightful country, but Icelanders really should do something about their volcanoes. They could start by giving them names that you can actually spell and pronounce.  Just don’t follow suggestions from Hawaiians.

Many years ago, when I first planned to hike the Irish Coast to Coast, an epidemic of foot and mouth disease closed down the trails, and I was forced to postpone the walk. Last summer … well, I was forced to postpone the walk. I don’t know what nature has in store for me this year, but I’m getting tired of it. I think the Europeans are also getting tired of it.

D’YA HEAR THAT, NATURE??  WE’RE ALL GETTING TIRED OF IT!!  YOU CAN DELAY US BUT YOU CAN’T STOP US.  READY OR NOT, THE YANKS ARE COMING!!!

Well, OK, you can actually stop us. But please don’t.




© 2011 Ken Klug

Ron's Secret Place

While enjoying my morning coffee yesterday, I received a telephone call from my good friend, Professor Ron. Ron is a living guidebook to hiking in southern Utah. “Ken,” he said, “I would like to hike to a secret place today – a place of such outstanding natural beauty that I was sworn by the person who discovered it never to disclose its location. Can join me?”

“Am I required to wear a blindfold?” I asked.

“No, but you must promise never to disclose its location to anyone,” replied the professor. “You know what happened to the Wave.” [Note: See the video embedded in the top pano of http://www.utah.com/playgrounds/the_wave.htm  for a report of what happened to the Wave.]

“Ron, I’m a highly trained lawyer. Preserving confidentiality is my stock in trade. Of course you can trust me to never disclose its location.”

“Good,” he replied. “I’ll pick you up in 30 minutes.”

I’m not only a trained lawyer, but also a trained hiker, so my backpack is always ready. All I need to add is a liter of water and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Thirty minutes was plenty of time for me to finish my coffee and assemble the sandwich.

It was also plenty of time for me to telephone my English friend, Dr. George, who happens to be vacationing in Utah. You may remember that Dr. George helped me search for angels on Halloween, and he is going to help me search for pubs in northern England. How could I hike to a secret place of outstanding natural beauty without including Dr. George?

“George,” I said, “Professor Ron is going to guide me to a secret place of outstanding natural beauty. Would you like to join us?”

Ever the gentlemen, George responded, “Well, unless Ron actually invited me along I don’t think…”

“Now, George,” I interrupted, “you know how absent-minded the professor can be. Had he thought about it, he certainly would have invited you. You’ve got to see this place before somebody spills the beans and the crowds discover it. Oh, and bring your GPS so we don’t get lost. Just be sure the professor doesn’t know you’re bringing the GPS, because he might be insulted if he thought we doubted his route finding ability.”

And so off we went to see the secret place of outstanding natural beauty, George carrying his GPS, I carrying my PB&J sandwich, and Ron carrying his secret.

There was no trail. Our route took us across the Utah high desert, where recent spring rains had brought out desert flowers

and the distant mountains were still displaying their winter snows.

In due course, we arrived at white petrified sand dunes, known as slickrock, created long ago by ancient seas. As we continued on, the slickrock gradually changed from white to red, evidence of staining by leaching minerals, probably iron from ancient volcanic flows. Candy-striped layers of rock are ubiquitous in Utah, but these were different. Normally the stripes are simply the result of layers of different sands deposited over time. Here, the candy stripes were stains, apparently caused by ancient iron rich streams and evaporating seas flowing over the white slickrock. Combined with the cubic fractures of the sandstone, the stains were a tiled mosaic – nature’s art. No wonder Ron wants to keep the place secret. Thousands of boots treading on the painted slickrock would quickly erase the marvelous swirls left by nature.

Awestruck by the beauty of Ron’s secret place, George and I reassured Ron that we would never disclose its location, despite the fact that the precise grid coordinates were captured by George’s GPS – the very same GPS we’ll be carrying when we walk together in northern England.

No, George and I will never, ever disclose the location. Our lips are forever sealed, and can never be pried open. Not even if you bribe us with a pint as we walk together in northern England. Not even for two pints. I dare you to try.

© 2011 Ken Klug

Rescuing Londoners in Yosemite

This week Janet wanted to attend a 3-day session of cooking classes in – of all places – YOSEMITE !!! Now, I don’t exactly need cooking lessons because I’m already widely recognized for making the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the planet. But it’s never a good idea to disappoint a spouse, so I reluctantly agreed that we would go to Yosemite for the cooking classes.

It was pouring rain as we left home, and I knew that driving into the Sierra Nevada during a winter storm would entail some risk. After all, look what happened to the Donner party. So, just in case we were to get stranded in the mountains, I took the precaution of packing my snowshoes, as well as a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. A cynic might speculate that bringing snowshoes to Yosemite was part of a plan to avoid the cooking classes, but I assure you that my motives were as pure as the driven snow. As it happened, the snowplows did their job, and the road to Yosemite was clear all the way.



Dangerous weather

 Knowing that we had safely arrived at the cooking venue was a great relief. But then it dawned on me: we weren’t the only persons planning to attend the cooking classes. What if some aspiring chef had taken a wrong turn and was lost? Sure, the roads were open, but what if somebody decided to walk to the cooking classes and got caught in the storm? How could I enjoy the classes worrying that some poor soul may be struggling through waist-deep snow while I was comfortable in a warm kitchen? No, that wouldn’t do. I had to launch a rescue.

Without wasting any time to mince an onion or par-boil a potato, I headed straight over to the ranger station, where I found my good friend Ranger Dick. “Dick,” I said, “there might be some cooks lost out there in the storm. Perhaps we ought to go out and search for them.”

“We usually wait for a report to come in before launching a search and rescue,’’ replied Dick.

“We don’t have time to wait,” I implored. “The cooking class will be starting soon, and if we don’t start searching right away, somebody might miss class.”

Being a trained observer, Dick quickly spotted my distress. “OK. I’ll go out on patrol and see if anybody’s in trouble.”

“Not you, Dick; BOTH of us. WE should go out on patrol – TOGETHER,” I pleaded in my most helpful tone. “Good citizens always assist the authorities in desperate times. Look, I just happen to have my snowshoes with me. You lead the way, and I’ll follow. Janet will forgive my missing class for an emergency patrol.”


The search begins



So, armed with a first aid kit and a PB&J sandwich, Dick and I set off into the back country in search of lost cooks.

Nobody at the creek

The weather conditions impeded our search. Any tracks which may have been left by a victim were obliterated by the deep, fresh powder of new snow. Any cries for help would have been muffled by the soft sound of snowflakes landing on the trees. Any victims, themselves, would have been concealed by shadows dancing on the hillside as the sun peeked in and out of the clouds. Yet we struggled on, hoping against hope that we would find a victim in time.



Brave Brits

 And then suddenly, there they were: an English couple, from London, totally out of place in the Yosemite wilderness. Bravely, they insisted that they weren’t lost – that they were merely out enjoying the day. But the look in their eyes betrayed them. Or at least the look would have betrayed them had their eyes not been hidden behind snow goggles. “We’re fine – really, we are.” But despite their courageous words, their smiles revealed relief at being rescued. They offered to share a Kendal Mint Cake with us. These brave Brits may have been stranded out here for days with nothing but Kendal Mint Cakes, and yet they were willing to share their meager provisions with their rescuers. They must be disciples of Shackleton.




Reflecting on the ridge

 Storms pass over California quickly, and the following day brought typical California sunshine. Still energized by the previous day’s rescue, I followed Dick to a high ridge where we could reflect on past events as the sun reflected off the snow. “The Londoners were remarkably calm yesterday, all things considered,” I observed.

“A very nice couple,” responded Dick. “Too bad about your missing the cooking class.”

“Yeah, too bad. Would you like half of my peanut butter sandwich?”



© 2011 Ken Klug

Building Stamina in Utah



One mustn’t set off on a 1200 mile walk without being in good condition, and over the past four weeks my friends in the Outback Hiking Club of Southern Utah have provided good encouragement for me to get back into shape.



Photo by Barry B.



The southwestern United States offers some of the most incredible land formations on Earth. What may appear as desert wasteland when viewed from a speeding automobile transforms into amazing, and sometimes eerie, scenery when approached in a pair of boots. Slot canyons, natural arches, petrified sand dunes, and candy-striped hills are virtually everywhere, all waiting to be explored.



Photo by Barry B.

 Exploration isn’t easy, because there are few trails and fewer landmarks. There is so much incredible scenery that it all starts to look alike. Turn around three times, and you may not find your way back. Did I come up through that drainage on the left, or the one over there? Was that the hill I skirted, or was it the other one? Wasn’t the sun on the other side of that canyon earlier? A good map and GPS are a necessity, or better yet, a friend who knows the area.



Photo by Ann S.



Due to the arid climate, vegetation is scarce – so don’t look for that distinctively bent tree to use as a guidepost. Animal life is also scarce, but occasionally a deer or rabbit might show itself. An owl is a special find. Snakes and desert tortoises are rarely seen, but we know they are out there from the tracks they leave in the coral pink sand. Tracks in the sand also betray the presence of coyotes and mountain lions, but you won’t see any of them unless you get lost and run out of water. Dinosaur tracks are sometimes seen in ancient muds now turned to stone, but I’m told that that the dinosaurs have all disappeared. I think they’ve gone to Hollywood to star in movies. Most plentiful are small lizards, always doing pushups on rocks.

Photo by Bonnie Allred

After hiking three days a week for four weeks, my legs are almost back to their former condition. I’m now at the point where I believe I could actually start out on a 1200 mile walk, and let the first few dozen miles complete the strengthening. But I suspect that my friends in Utah will have a few more stamina-building hikes in store for me when I return in another month.



Photo by Bonnie Allred



For more information on hiking in southern Utah, see http://www.ohcosu.com/

© 2010 Ken Klug

Angel's Landing, Zion National Park, Utah



Angel's Landing

 With the approach of Halloween, I thought it wise to enlist an angel for protection from ghoulies and ghosties, and long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night. And where better to recruit an angel for that purpose than Angel’s Landing in Utah’s Zion National Park.

The primary rock of Zion Canyon is sandstone deposited millions of years ago by winds when the area was similar to the present-day Sahara, and then buried by ancient seas whose sediments reacted with the sand turning it to stone.  Much of the sandstone has eroded away, and what remains has unusual shapes.  Angel’s Landing is a narrow fin of sandstone rising some 1800 feet above the floor of Zion Canyon. A 2½ mile trail leads to the summit.

The trail starts innocently enough as a wide footpath of moderate grade, providing sweeping views of Zion Canyon as elevation increases. 



Refrigerator Canyon



The trail then enters a narrow riparian slot commonly known as Refrigerator Canyon due to its decided drop in temperature. From there, rapid elevation gain is achieved by a series of tight switchbacks known as Walter’s Wiggles, emerging at a saddle known as Scout’s Lookout. Beyond the saddle, a narrow, treacherous route steeply ascends the arête to the highest ridge where angels are said to land.

Angels can be difficult to find, so it’s always a good idea to have some help when trying to recruit one. My help took the form of my wife, Janet, and our two English friends, George and Ann. I knew that George and Ann would be up to the task, because they had previously helped with some of the End to End logistics, and are planning to walk with me a bit in England to be sure that I don’t get lost among the pubs. Janet has quietly followed me around the world, usually putting up with every crazy adventure I’ve conceived, but she has put her foot down when it comes to walking across islands or climbing towards heaven on narrow ridges in search of angels.

As George and I set off alone up the arête, cheers of enthusiastic support came from Janet and Ann. “Did you leave the car key?” “Is your life insurance paid?”



View from the Top

 Undaunted, George and I proved our testosterone by ascending ever higher along the precipitous route. We imagined ourselves scaling Mt. Everest as we scrambled over areas where even the slightest slip would hurl us to our doom. What valiant souls we were, risking our very lives for the chance to meet with an angel. Higher and higher we climbed – at nearly 5,800 feet, we were far above the highest peak in Britain. Gasping for oxygen in the thin air, we passed over the final ledge to the top. But there were no angels. They had obviously been scared away by the dozens of people having lunch on the summit: old people, young people with small children, fat people, thin people – every one of them oblivious to the sacrifice George and I had just made for the chance to find an angel.

Having failed to find an angel, George and I merely shrugged our shoulders, and descended back to Scout’s Lookout, concerned about the prospect of having to face the Halloween goblins alone.



No Angels on the Summit



© 2010 Ken Klug