Mud Sweat & Tears - Bear Grylls [16]
As an aside, the one occasion in later life that I did get him out in the bigger mountains with me was a year or so after I had passed SAS Selection. I suggested we take a hike into the Brecon Beacons to climb some of the peaks in south Wales which had been the focal point of so many of my military marches and tests.
I arranged for Dad to be met at Merthyr Tydfil train station by Sgt Taff, my troop sergeant.
‘How will I recognize Taff?’ Dad had asked.
‘You’ll recognize him,’ I replied. Taff looked military through and through: short, stocky, tight-haired, and with a classic soldier’s handlebar moustache.
Taff collected Dad, and we all met up at the foot of the Brecon Beacons. The mountains were shrouded in a howling gale. We got halfway up the first peak, yet after an exciting river crossing of a raging torrent that was normally only ever a trickle of a stream, I noticed Dad’s nose was bleeding badly.
He looked very pale and tired, so we headed down.
We had a fun few days together like this in the mountains, but by the time he got home to my mother she accused me of half-killing him and told us that there would be: ‘Strictly no more “death expeditions”.’
I understood where she was coming from, but she kind of threw the baby out with the bathwater, and her blanket ban on our trips simply meant that Dad and I missed out on a load of fun adventures that I know he was so keen to do.
Now that Dad is no longer with us, I feel sad we didn’t exploit those precious years together more. But that is life sometimes.
The final, real adventure I had with Dad growing up was also my first taste of being in a life-threatening, genuine survival situation – and, despite the danger, I found that I just loved it.
This final mission also probably had something to do with my mother’s ban on Dad and me undertaking any further escapades into the wild. Yet like all great adventures, it started off so innocently …
CHAPTER 14
We were on a family holiday to Cyprus to visit my aunt and uncle. My Uncle Andrew was then the brigadier to all the British forces on the island, and as such a senior military figure I am sure he must have dreaded us coming to town.
After a few days holed up in the garrison my uncle innocently suggested that maybe we would enjoy a trip to the mountains. He already knew the answer that my father and I would give. We were in.
The Troodos Mountains are a small range of snowy peaks in the centre of the island, and the soldiers posted to Cyprus use them to ski and train in. There are a couple of ski runs but the majority of the peaks in winter are wild and unspoilt.
In other words, they are ripe for an adventure.
Dad and I borrowed two sets of army skis and boots from the garrison up in the hills and spent a great afternoon together skiing down the couple of designated runs. But designated runs can also be quite boring. We both looked at each other and suggested a quick off-piste detour.
I was all game … aged eleven.
It wasn’t very far into this ‘between the trees’ deep-powder detour that the weather, dramatically, and very suddenly, took a turn for the worse.
A mountain mist rolled in, reducing visibility to almost zero. We stopped to try and get, or guess, our directions back to the piste, but our guess was wrong, and very soon we both realized we were lost. (Or temporarily geographically challenged, as I have learnt to call it.)
Dad and I made the mistake that so many do in that situation, and ploughed on blind, in the vain hope that the miraculous would occur. We had no map, no compass, no food, no water, no mobile telephone (they hadn’t even been invented yet), and in truth, no likelihood of finding our way.
We were perfect candidates for a disaster.
Trudging through deep snow, when you are young, cold, wet and tired is hard. And the minutes became hours, and