Electra loop - Tipsy in Tuolumne

After an uncomfortable night due to a punctured mattress which resisted all attempts to mend, I set off with a foolproof plan for the day.  According to the map, I needed only to traverse around the ridge separating my lake from Marie Lake to pick up a trail that would take me, via a short stretch south on the John Muir Trail (JMT) and the Rush Creek trail, the 12 miles down to the trailhead at June Lake to the east. There, I could catch a noon shuttle back up to Tuolumne, grab a burger at the Grill, and be home by dinnertime. Providing I started early and hoofed it, what could possibly go wrong?

Let me count the ways:

1. I couldn't find Marie Lake trail. I later realised that there were actually 2 small ridges to traverse - this was indicated by about 3 mm of squiggly lines on the topo map. 

   

   X- campsite; blue dotted line - route down wrong ridge spur the day before; left blue line - the correct ridge to Marie Lake; black line - trail from Marie Lake; red line - JMT, red dotted line  - my route down the drainage; right blue line - Rush Creek trail.

2. I had to descend a off-trail drainage east to intersect JMT. This involved more steep talus and additional bushwhacking through willow thickets. After a few hours, I did eventually locate JMT and was almost overwhelmed by the novelty of a trail: how miraculous to be able to walk along, simply putting one foot in front of the other without thought! 

   

   The novelty of a trail.

3. I couldn't find the Rush Creek trail. Was it to the north or to the south? My black and white home-printed map was too indistinct at this point to be of any help. I walked 1/2 mile north - no Rush Creek trail. I walked back and 1/4 mile further south. I asked a hiker who said he'd talked to some guys to the north who said they are camped at Rush Creek. I retraced steps and ventured further north, up a large hill, eventually coming to the Marie Lake Trail. (lesson: never believe what a guy said some other guys said). At least now I knew that the Rush Creek trail was to the south, but it was a moot point as it was now too late to catch the midday (and last) shuttle. 
4. I had to take the long route out. I decided the only option was to take the JMT the 15 miles back to the car in Tuolumne Meadows across Donohue Pass (yes, more climbing) and along Lyell Canyon.

   

   Donohue Pass

5. The car wouldn't start. After many hours of trudging,
   
   the last few fueled by visions of a huge juicy burger and a mountain of ketchup laden fries
   
   at the Tuolumne Grill, I finally arrived at the car, to find it completely dead. 
6. Neither the ranger's car nor the parks truck could jump start the car. We called for AAA roadside assistance.
7. Help was long in coming. It was late afternoon on July 4th and the nearest working service truck was across Tioga Pass in Lee Vining, about 45 min away.
8. I was inadvertently inebriated. While waiting for the AAA guy to arrive, I sat down to celebrate emerging safely with a glass of wine.....and suddenly was completely pole-axed.  I could only stagger to the back seat of the car and collapse, completely out of it. Realisation slowly dawned that I was actually quite drunk. I had been this sozzled only several times before in my youth, and certainly never as a result of a single glass of wine! It must have been the combination of dehydration, hunger, altitude and exhaustion.

   

   Wine and chips and a broken down car.
   
   

9. There was no juicy burger for dinner. Eventually, my hazy brain realised that I would need to soon drive and that food beyond chips was needed to sober up. The Tuolumne Grill was a) too far away; and b) closed. I pulled out the campstove, boiled up water, and tossed the dregs of remaining food and choked down the resulting unappetising mess of mashed potatoes with freeze dried veggies and old jerky. At this point, I cried. It all seemed too much.
10. I was forced to drive the whole way home non-stop late at night.  The AAA guy eventually arrived and got me started. He suggested driving out of the park to charge up the battery. I decided to camp just outside the park as I was so tired, but the battery warning light was on and did not go off. I kept driving to avoid being really stuck in the woods if I camped and the car wouldn't start the next morning. I battled to cling to a thin thread of consciousness. Fireworks from the small communities across the Central Valley added to the surreal feeling of the drive. So strung out, amidst the late night tide of traffic, I felt utterly alone. This was the most terrifying part of the entire trip.

I made it home at midnight.

Epic journey. 

The end.

Electra loop: Over the top.

As I said previously, one of the consequences of going solo is that you are responsible for your own mistakes. Early in the miraculously clear morning, I managed to grip the pot full of breakfast on an uninsulated section. The oatmeal cascaded down my rock perch. There was nothing for it; I had no extra food. I grabbed my spoon and scooped it up, spitting out the grit. At least it hadn't been the coffee!

This day had loomed large in my mind for many weeks. I would need to climb to the Sierra Crest on the ridge near Electra Peak, scramble to the summit, then descend  and traverse a seldom travelled horseshoe-shaped basin beneath another ridgeline of high peaks, cross North Clinch Pass (involving a section of easy rock climbing) and finally descend to my destination of Marie Lake. It was only 4 miles, but all well above the treeline (there around 10,500 ft) and over rough terrain. I had sought out the few accounts of the traverse, repeatedly studied maps, planned compass bearings that would take me on a connect-the-dot route between ridges, lakes and passes, and tried to estimate times for each 'segment'. Based on an old trip report which described a high traverse of the basin on "well-consolidated talus and slabs", I'd estimated that it would take me 6 or 7 hours. With an early start, I figured I could be safely over North Clinch Pass before the afternoon when the storms had been rolling in. This point was vital: being on the top of an exposed ridge in an electrical storm is not healthy. I'd had this experience before and was keen to avoid a repeat performance. If the weather came in earlier, I'd formulated a Plan B of descending to some lakes lower in the basin for the night, but I worried that the storms could gather out of sight beyond the ridges and roll in quickly, catching me up high. Again, I'd seen it happen before. It all added up to one thing: to minimise risk, I would have to move as fast and as accurately as possible. I shouldered the pack.

Almost 10 hours later, I came to a lake. It wasn't Marie Lake. I collapsed in a grimy, exhausted heap and decided enough was enough.

Starting up the first talus slope bright and early.

More talus up to Electra Peak

Nearly at the Sierra crest ~ 12,000 ft. Ridgeline to Electra Peak

Made it! 12,400 ft. Sadly not even close to half way there....

Electra Peak log - very few other parties and no women...

The basin to traverse, North Clinch Pass between the two triangular peaks in the distance. Do you see any talus?

Forced to drop down to this delightful spot to make the traverse easier

Typical traverse ground....

Scrambling back up to North Clinch Pass. Notice the reported "consolidated talus and slabs" of the high traverse? No, I didn't either.

The way up: third class section of loose crap to top of North Clinch Pass

Top of North Clinch Pass at about 8 hours: break out the Snickers bar (this explains the smile)

Yay! Marie Lake at last

Too bad this is the descent.

I came all the way down there to get to the wrong lake??

[Video taken on arrival omitted due to strong language inappropriate for family viewers]

Life lessons of the day

• Don't assume other people's perceptions are the same as your own: the accounts of the traverse must have been written by Alistair-style mountain goats who bounded across unstable rocks, and not by dodgy-knee teeterers like me.
• All the preparation in the world will not eliminate risk. Embrace this fact and be prepared to roll with the punches: The best map will not tell you everything. Neither will Google Earth. Multiple times, my charted route had cliffs in the way or crossed dangerously steep and unstable slopes, forcing me to reassess and detour (usually down and then up).
• Overwhelming tasks are made manageable by breaking them into small chunks: sometimes these detours caused great dismay, but by setting a series of intermediate targets ('I'll just get to that boulder, then I'll climb down that gully' etc), I was able to avoid frustration and stay calm and focused.
• Sometimes it's really smart to eat an entire Snickers bar in one sitting: yup, when you're really pooped and you're staring at yet another nasty challenge, nothing beats chocolate, caramel and peanuts!
• Be very thankful for the times when you catch a break: I found, in the vast black ocean of talus, a series of delightful grassy ramps and miniature flower-filled meadows that lead most of the way up to North Clinch Pass. Even better, the weather held off and I had blue skies all day. Given the time it took to get across this area, I was extremely lucky not to have been caught out there in a storm. Things could have gone bad, fast.....
• You're not necessarily lost if you arrive at the wrong destination. I had taken the wrong spur down a ridge and ended up at a lake on the other side of the ridge from Marie Lake. I was in the wrong place, but I knew where that was.
• Running the commonsense app on the I-brain will get you far; it's possibly the most important tool you can have.

In the end, I was incredibly grateful to have experienced this day, with all its trials and tribulations.

Life is learning.

Electra loop: Why solo? Risk and control as a mother.

The High Trail dove down to cross the Lyell Fork of the Merced river, and laboured up switchbacks on the other side. I stepped off the trail and headed up river. It was midday, and I'd been charmed up the lower reaches of Lewis Creek with its waterfalls and great rushing waterslides over granite slabs, and inspired by glimpses of the far reaches of the park through the woods of the High Trail that sidled along high above  a deep valley - Red Peak is aptly named. 

Red Peak from the High Trail

But now it was time to turn off cruise control and venture into a seldom travelled part of the park. I'd seen no-one all day (and only 2 hikers the day before), and would see none for another two days.

Why do I venture out solo? Apart from the pragmatic reason of not being able to find a willing and available partner (strangely, my suburban mother acquaintances show little inclination in this direction...), I find myself quite content with my own company. But the real motivation, I believe, is comprised of two elements: risk and control, that I find lacking in my daily humdrum life.

Although I work part-time in a stimulating and rewarding job, my primary responsibilities revolve around motherhood: kids and school and a never-ending cycle of  housework and homework and volunteering and the expectations of being An Upstanding Member of the Community; of saying the correct things at the correct times. But I have never mastered the latter in this country- I lack the ability to gush appropriately in the American-mother style, my Kiwi upbringing leaves me socially adrift and there is a constant feeling of never quite fitting in and of knowing that that will never change. Of course, with this inability to live up to expected standards comes guilt. The mountains, therefore, are my salve and my saviour. A solo trip into these remote regions involves a certain degree of risk. But by eschewing the everyday safe life that is paradoxically so burdensome and fraught with social danger, I find freedom.  Dean Potter, a visionary climber and wingsuit BASE jumper known for pushing the boundaries and taking extreme risks wrote: 'I long to be that free, flying above the cluttered world of normalcy, where so many are half alive'. Sadly, Dean suffered the ultimate consequence of his extreme risk taking, but his words resonate with me.

Many would say that the assumption of unnecessary risk is irresponsible when you are a mother. But what are the risks? Injury, getting lost, difficult terrain, problems with altitude or gear, insufficient fitness, bears, weather, the possibility of death by a billion mosquitoes. The question becomes, how can you minimize them? I would say by extensive preparation and research, by training hard, by the incremental accumulation of backcountry know-how and climbing experience over many years, by the careful selection of equipment, by improving knowledge through navigation and wilderness first aid classes, by carrying a SPOT beacon and letting many people know your plans, by knowing where your risk limits lie (for example, I will scramble up and down third class (steep rock that requires hands) terrain alone, but will not attempt anything more difficult - this is a firm limit for me). When viewed from this perspective, risk become acceptable and liberating.

The second reason I enjoy solo trips is because I am in complete control over all decision-making and therefore assume full responsibility for my actions. Although I love to go venturing off with Al, he often ends up taking the lead by virtue of superior leg length and overall strength (and, truth be told, his 'mountain goat' genes), Not his fault at all, it's just biology. But the fact is that I want to lead, I want to make decisions, I want to be independent. There is a burning desire to prove myself capable. When you're alone, there's no bitching, no resentment, no blame. It's difficult to argue with yourself. You screw up, you deal with it. Simple.

Venturing beyond the confines of established trails increases risk and the need for control. It is constantly challenging: you must always be alert to your surroundings, must always be making navigational decisions, must always be thinking of Plan B and Plan C in case things don't go according to plan despite your best efforts or due to external factors such as weather. There is no plodding along mindlessly. You enter a state of heightened awareness. The pursuit of this mental state is the reason Dean Potter gives for putting himself in harms way, by 'pushing into fear, exhaustion, beauty and the unknown'.

Ultimately, I believe that these experiences, this assumption of risk and the ability to control it, makes me a better mother and wife. My head is clear, I have more patience, more confidence. I take pride in being a strong and independent role model for my daughters.

Lyell Fork of the Merced, Electra Peak and Mt Ansel Adams in center distance

=Looking down the headwall

The Lyell Fork of the Merced presented a range of navigational challenges as I worked my way up to a lake beneath Mt Ansel Adams. There were streams to cross on slippery logs. One attempt was a soggy failure. Meadows and bogs had to be circumvented and lastly a headwall consisting of a maze of cliff bands had to be to negotiated. 

Camp under Mt Ansel Adams.

I made camp under grey skies and watched, mesmerised, as the clouds swirled around the high peaks, lowering to engulf the lake in fog then rising to give tantalising glimpses of the Sierra Crest.

A stormy dinner

Another storm rolled in for

 a repeat performance of 

the previous day. 

Where I'm headed tomorrow....

Self-doubt threatened to overtake me as I contemplated the following day's planned climb of Electra Peak and traverse to the east of the crest. Would I make it? An intense electrical storm at 3 am did not bode well.

Electra loop: Stormy skies

Enormous puddles and damp campers were testament to the previous night's inclement weather. Driving through the Tuolumne Meadows campground en route to the trailhead, I eyed the uniformly leaden skies, confused and unsure. What did they signify? Were they just the remnants of a storm clearing out, or were they harbingers of worse to some? It was humid and still, almost oppressive. The conditions were unlike any I'd seen in the area before. The weather forecast called for 30-40% chance of thunderstorms for the next week; I packed rainpants, storm matches, waterproof stuff sacks.

The first couple of miles climbed gently on a well-used trail to Elizabeth Lake, where the beaten path ended and the adventure began. Retracing the steps of our recent family backpacking trip, I followed the inlet stream  up through open forest and meadows to some unnamed lakes west  of Johnson Peak. Unlike the previous trip, when these jewels had glowed sapphire under the great Sierra Blue, the lakes were pearl grey.

Unnamed lakes near Johnson Peak on the last trip; this time the skies were leaden...

 The sun almost peeked through, and I thought my theory of a passing storm might be correct. A traverse down across slabs and  through forest to the east of Rafferty Peak on a carefully computed compass bearing eventually brought me out to the Rafferty Creek trail just a few minutes from Tuolumne Pass. I congratulated myself on my superior navigation skills. This trail is a backcountry highway leading to the Vogelsang High Sierra Camp, where, for a price you can ride a mule to outfitted tent cabins and enjoyed chef-produced fine food and wine. Maybe in another few decades! Of course, all the necessary provisions have to be transported somehow... and that means mules. I had to jump aside for no fewer than five mule trains and dodge their inevitable unpleasant output in the mile or so up to camp. Curiously, there were no other backpackers to be seen.

During lunch near Vogelsang HSC, the clouds seemed to thicken, and first clap of thunder rumbled around in the nearby high peaks. Time to hurry along. One possible spot for the night was at Vogelsang lake, a mile above the HSC - we had stayed at this gorgeous lake last year on our family trip - but it was exposed and the prospect of a stormy night there in the ultralight shelter wasn't appealing based on previous experience (see "Bad-Ass Mamas Go Peakbagging"). So I hurried along past the lake and climbed gently up across granite slabs and pocket meadows of wildflowers to Vogelsang Pass at 10,800 ft.

Vogelsang Lake from near the pass with Rafferty Peak at rear left. Lots of black clouds...

There the view changed abruptly. Two fat and happy marmots occupied a perfect perch overlooking the Lewis Creek Canyon which headed west below, and the lakes in hanging valleys to the south side, nestled under the highest peaks in Yosemite along the Sierra Crest. Stunning. I wanted to linger, but black clouds roiled and grumbled their warnings. So it was off down the precipitous switchbacks hewn out of the flanks of the canyon to the wooded (and hopefully more sheltered) valley floor. 

Stone steps lead down into Lewis Canyon. Looking towards Bernice Lake and Mt Lyell , the highest point in the park on the Sierra Crest

Upper Lewis Canyon

It started raining on and off, and so around mid-afternoon I saw an appealing campsite on the side of some cliffs through which the river cascaded noisily and decided to call it a day; I was a couple of miles further on that my most optimistic prediction. Getting down to the river was a bit of a scramble, but I was rewarded by views up to several waterfalls....and a patch of wild onions. Fresh greens for dinner! I couldn't help but think of all the climbing potential along the cliffs lining the gorge. What fun it would be to return with gear and partners and explore more thoroughly.

Lewis Canyon camp. How deluxe is that?!

The rain let up enough to get up the shelter (you'd need delusions of grandeur to call the thing a tent), to enjoy a snack of crackers and freeze-died cheddar (yes, seriously - Moon Cheese is da bomb!), and to relax a bit.

If only I'd been prepared to carry the weight of the backcountry beer......

However, I'd barely finished dinner when the heavens opened and all hell broke loose. Hail pelted down and bounced into the shelter while thunder reverberated in the narrow canyon. One blast was so loud that it rattled my teeth, pounded my chest and scared me silly.  If I were inclined to religion, it would have been a good time to pray. As a mere atheist, I could only hunker down and hope. Fortunately, the shelter stayed up and the worst of the storm passed in a couple of hours. I went to bed to flashes of lightning and the sound of thunder rolling around over the pass towards Vogelsang lake. It was a fitful night punctuated by more rain; I burrowed further into my bag and tried to ignore it. Ostrich. Head. Sand.

Electra Loop 2015: Inspiration

Over the winter, I was searching for the summer’s next big challenge, and came across a blog by Leor Pantilat (https://pantilat.wordpress.com/2014/10/15/electra-loop-electra-peak-lyell-fork-merced-river/) which described a loop into a remote area of Yosemite. Phrases like ‘remote and rugged’, ‘amazing view’, ‘chiseled ridgeline’ and ‘spectacular alpine lakes’  leaped from the screen and instantly had me hooked. The loop he described was about 45 miles long, had 10,000 ft of elevation gain and loss, and included a cross-country traverse of the Sierra Divide. This animal covered the distance in 11 hours; I figured five days no worries.

Leor Pantilat’s Electra Loop – from Mile 15-25 is off-trail, but I added in some extra off-trail miles (both planned and unplanned), and did the loop in reverse.

Six months of training and preparation ensued. How light could I make my load and still be safe and partly comfortable? My creaky knees thanked me for every item deemed unnecessary and I even resorted to learning to use a Kindle, a major step for a Luddite like me. After much deliberation, obsessive weighing of every item, and paring down of food (I was once stuck in the Alaskan wilderness for an extra day due to a recalcitrant grizzly bear, and ran out of food. It clearly made a lasting impression as I tend to pack too much ‘just in case’), the final pack weight was a shade under 25 pounds including all gear, clothing, boots, food and water.

 Packed and ready to go.

On the training side of things, the picnic table again became an essential tool, but only when Alistair wasn’t looking – I had previously broken it by walking over it loaded with my pack thousands of times for a previous trip and Al has been forced to rebuild the thing. This time around the rebuilt table remained intact judicious use, and Al’s fearsome wrath was avoided.

With the rest of the family dispatched to various places around the world – Tenaya to Nicaragua on a Girl Scout service trip, Al to Australia on business and Tara to New Zealand to stay with family, I was finally free to go adventuring. Well, not really – technically I was meant to be able to be contacted in case of emergency….. but that was just the small print.

Veitch locations around the world – T1 = Tenaya, T2 = Tara; and you can guess the rest.

The mountains sang their siren song and I succumbed without resistance. As John Muir said: " Mountains are calling my name and I must go".

Bad-ass mamas go peakbagging ....and fail.

On a recent stop at our favourite water hole, Rainbow Pools just outside Yosemite, I was about to clamber up to the top of the Big Rock for the ritual leap, when I was stopped by a young rapper dude. He inquired whether I was planning on jumping off, and so I replied that I was, as was my habit each visit. "Whoa, yo bad-ass mama!" he exclaimed.

The phrase sprang to mind again en route to the high country last weekend. It had been planned as a girls' backpacking trip, by one by one, friends had dropped out and now it was just Leigh and I driving past the same spot. Leigh, of all people, is seriously bad-ass, earning a black belt in Tae Kwon Do **post-kids** among many other accomplishments. And she grew up being dragged off to the mountains by an insanely (mis)-adventurous father to boot. We had been on plenty of Girl Scout-y sorts of trips with the girls, but this was our first time venturing off alone. The plan was for a quickie peak-bagging trip: a hike into Young Lake out of Tuolumne Meadows via Ragged Peak, then a run up to the top of Mt Conness the following day and directly back home. Forecast looked pretty good with only 20% chance of showers, and we were travelling light, borrowing Al's ultralight gear once again. What could possibly go wrong?

'Bad-ass mamas'

We set off from Lembert Dome in the early afternoon under smoky skies courtesy of the enormous forest fire further north near Tahoe. A few puffy white clouds floated around, but nothing too ominous. After a couple of hours, we left the trail, headed up to the saddle below Ragged Peak and dumped our packs to scramble to the pointy top.

Ragged Peak from Young Lake, saddle at the center.

Heading off trail toward the saddle, mid-left skyline. Still blue sky...

At the saddle, back clouds gathering

There was a distant rumble. We pretended it was a passing plane and started on up. There were three more rumbles in close succession. Perhaps we could at least get to the summit ridge and not go on the very pointy bit? There was a flash and immense clap. We ran down tout de suite. Peak No.1; FAIL!

From the saddle, it was a steep drop straight down to lower Young lake which we bypassed in favour of the smaller middle lake.

Lower Young Lake from the saddle, Mt Conness in background

After we had got ourselves sorted out with the ultralight shelter up and were about to get dinner started, the heavens opened and the sound and light show began in earnest. Apparently, all bets on the weather are off in the Sierra Nevada are off this year. We hunkered down in the ultralight 1 person shelter as puddles, then lakes of water formed around it: we had pitched the thing on a typical Sierra campsite consisting on a lovely flat gravel area covering underlying granite slabs. Terrific territory for drainage....right under the shelter!

The ultralight shelter sagging in the rain and hail...

Trying to fit into the 1 person shelter with aid of the space blanket

The rain changed to pinging hail, and so we took the opportunity to retreat under a space blanket that Leigh had had the foresight to bring which we rigged in the trees. It might have be been slightly drier but by that time everything was damp so it was difficult to tell. Certainly, it was quite convenient for doing dishes as the the water poured off directly into the pot. Eventually, Leigh decided that the ultralight shelter might be slightly less damp rigged actually IN the tree, so we got cracking like good girl scouts and did some shelter innovation and possibly improvement. Again, it was hard to tell as everything was wet.

Leigh's cosy 'tree-pitched' shelter

Staying not quite soaked under space blanket tarp

Amid an intense storm, we gave up jumping into each other's laps in fright, and clambered, shivering, into clammy sleeping bags for the night, Leigh in the shelter partially encased in a rubbish bag, and me in the bivy sack under the space blanket canopy. The storm had moved away from our lake basin and was apparently hammering the other side of the ridge - the flashes of lightning were like the end of a 4th of July fireworks display in black and white instead of colour. Strangely, though, we could hear no thunder. It was a cozy night. We both managed to avoid hypothermia (blue foam is remarkably warm to sleep under when soggy down isn't doin' it for you, and rubbish bags work well) and electrocution, so we couldn't complain.

Leigh tweaked my toes at some ungodly hour of the morning and sat up all perky and ready to climb Mt Conness. She really is the Ever-ready bunny in human form. Bad-ass! In contrast, I was feeling groggy and damp. Ugh. Coffee, please. The lighter and stove weren't happy with being abandoned in the storm, but with Leigh's storm matches and some TLC (we love you, stove, we really do), breakfast and a brew were soon going and so were we.

The day improved as we headed up towards Mt Conness, past an unusual body of water that we termed 'Mitochondrial Lake' which featured a very playful coyote.

Mitochondrial Lake

Leigh near the top of the steep climb above Mitochondrial Lake

A steep climb took us up to the 'plateau' next to Mt Conness, where the accumulated night's hail turned to a couple of inches of ordinary snow. It certainly felt icy when the wind blew - a far cry from the intense heat of the last Sierra trip only 3 weeks earlier.

Approaching Mt Conness across snowy plateau

Flower poking up through the snow

We reached the east side of the plateau and were treated to superb views of the Twenty lakes basin area behind Saddlebag lake.

Leigh above the Twenty Lakes basin

The last couple of hundred of feet to the summit of Conness are narrow and exposed  although very well-constructed; I had descended this route before without trouble. However, this time the narrow steps and ledges above large drop-offs were covered in slippery, melting snow, and I was shod in some cheap boots with bad traction (in aid of a dicey ankle) instead of grippy approach shoes. We very carefully climbed about half way up the last section, then I decided that if going up seemed sketchy then going down would be even worse... so we turned around and teetered our way back down along the ridge. Peak No. 2 : FAIL!

Beating a teetering retreat down the slippery summit ridge of Mt Conness

Large face on Conness.

So back down to the soggy gear at camp we trotted and out to the car via a rather tedious trail, as more clouds gathered for the day's storm. It had been a memorable trip: I'd learned a few things, not least of which was the importance of having someone who can keep their chin up when things don't go according to plan....and who can spot you a pair of lacy knickers when yours are soaked! A true friend indeed. Thanks, Leigh, let's do it again sometime. Apart from the cold and wet part.....