A selection from Karl’s journals that cover the start of the Expedition, through ARGENTINA and up to the border with CHILE

Saturday 31st May 1997. PRIVATE
Yate's wine bar, City centre, Hull, Sunny day, 26.7 degrees C.

This is the first entry in my diary. Perhaps one day I can look back through these notes and appreciate how naive I was. During my tour of Norway in 1997 I battled with the idea, or more accurately, came to terms with the decision that given success or failure in the forthcoming sponsorship campaign, I would still go feet to ground in late 1998. It has taken a long time to come to terms with just what this means. I am in fact saying that I am willing to try this without any financial support of any form, and at present, without any idea of how I will be able to achieve the smallest of distances. This increases the chance a fatal error by a factor of 10. These months have been a roller- coaster ride of emotions.

I feel like a man on death row.

Sunday 1st November 1998. 09:07 hours, local. (GMT -3 hours ) .
Grid : Punta Arenas.

Last night was an absolute nightmare. I had to get a taxi from the airport to Punta Arenas because it was too late for the last bus. It cost me $4000 Chilean (£4) to get the 10 miles or so into town. I changed my cash into U S dollars ($671), and also some Chilean money. I then put the trailer together which took me about three hours. It was dark and not a little spooky alone on the streets, trying to get my life together. When eventually the time came to move I got about 20 yards and had a catastrophic failure of the wheels and axle. I didn't have a clue what was going wrong, but as I walked the wheels tightened, then crushed the ball bearings and stripped the thread from the spindle.

I stopped, stripped the wheels and axle down and lost some of the ball bearings. It was self-evident that I was in a lot of trouble. Everything I tried went to rat shit, and I was gripped by a horrible sensation of panic and fear---- I was immobile. I had some food in the form of pasta, but had no fuel for my stove, having not been allowed to carry it on the aircraft. Also being in the middle of town I could not light a fire. I tried in vain to fix the wheels. Eventually in order to move I had to just let the wheels sit on the spindle without securing them. I have now to track down a bike shop and obtain some spares, i.e some ball bearings and also wheel nuts, because they had also been threaded.

I attempted to sleep beside the road in town, but had to sit it out through the night, with absolutely no chance of sleep at all. It was during those dark, long and lonely hours that I could see the enormity of my seemingly never-ending struggle literally spread out before me. The distances involved and the time frame were nothing short of mind blowing. This was it then, I was actually here. So many times in the past I had visualised this moment, but try as I like I could never have made it as exciting or daunting as reality. This was so real I could taste it.

Since my childhood days in East Yorkshire the horizon had always provoked curiosity in me. The further away it was, the more fascination it held. What would it be like if I went there? What would I be able to see beyond it? Off I would go then, sustained by a bottle of pop and a Mars bar, off across the fields and hedgerows to the north of Hull. I would sometimes have a less than enthusiastic native bearer, in the form of my younger brother Adrian, but I felt he was never gripped by the ‘curiosity’ on our expeditions.

At 16 I joined the Army as a Junior Soldier in the Parachute Regiment. From there I was posted to the 3rd Battalion and hence was given the opportunity to view some seriously real horizons in countries like Canada and Africa. It was during this period that the seed of a long-distance walk began to germinate. I looked at a number of routes but as the idea evolved I began to link these routes and eventually 'The Goliath Expedition' was born. Yes, this was it! This was where I'd been heading since childhood. The blood would pound through my veins at the very thought of it. I remember, in Norway, staring out over a vast landscape of ice and snow, over a cold and forbidding world that had taken on a new meaning now. One day I would find myself alone in such a world, this would be the greatest test. There is the very real fear that in my determination to complete this challenge I will push a situation beyond that point of no return.

How was I to accomplish all of this? I had no credibility as an 'explorer'. No contacts that would help me set up the expedition, and primarily¼ no funds. I took my idea to the Regiment. After all, this was what being a paratrooper was all about, endurance, self-sufficiency and the ability to go it alone on foot. I spoke to a number of people and they seemed to go for it. I had nearly completed my initial twelve years in the Army and was due to sign on, extending my service. The Army agreed that it would keep me on as a serving soldier for the first year of the expedition. This certainly took a lot of the pressure from me, as now I would have a solid foundation on which to build the expedition and the credibility I required. Everything was looking very promising. The ‘Soldier Magazine’ published an article covering the planned expedition and subsequently I received an invitation from 10 Downing Street to attend the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh's 50th anniversary dinner at the Guildhall. As I was due to extend my service I was also entitled to a bonus of £6,000. On the strength of this I bought a number of extremely expensive items that I believed would be required on the expedition, including a satellite telephone, laptop computer and solar panel charger. Needless to say, on the morning I went to sign on I was informed that the Army had changed its mind. By lunchtime I had handed in my army equipment and was on the train home, unemployed and in debt. Though an awful shock, in truth the decision did not come as a surprise to me. I never fully felt that the Army had any confidence in this expedition. At that time the Regiment had been getting a lot of bad press, and as serving soldier there was therefore potential for complications and even more bad press. On reflection if I had been the Army Officer making that decision I would have done the same. It was a wise choice I believe and one I could understand.

I strove to find a job that would allow me to pay off my debts and build funds for the expedition, however that didn't materialise and I couldn't even pay off my debts. I tried continuously to raise some sponsorship, from companies both large and small. Now and again there would be a glimmer of interest, but that's all. It occurred to me that to wait for sponsorship would be to wait forever. It would only be a matter of time before all my equipment was repossessed. If I was ever going to go it had to be now. My father offered to pay for my significantly one way flight to Chile, and with that I burned what bridges I had left, gritted my teeth and leapt into the dark.

On top of everything else it was Sunday of course and all the shops were closed. I would now have to wait until Monday to use the one small bike shop I had found. So here I am sitting in the street. There is a clear blue sky and a warm sun, but it's blowing a gale and an icy cold wind at that. My hands are a bit numb and it's not easy to write. I need to do a bit of shopping and find some food, (and a toilet ), but am too scared to keep moving the trailer in case it causes even more damage. Week one, day one! God help me.

About midday I met a lad from Canada who be had been living down here for three years whilst working. He invited me to his place for something to eat and this was a good time to leave my kit at his place, allowing me the chance to go shopping for rations and fuel before the kick-off on Monday (with a bit of luck ). I spend the rest of the afternoon at his place. Not speaking Spanish is making life and very hard as no one here speaks English. My double AA battery charger is also knackered, so I have no power for my torch, Walkman, or camera.

Today is a special holiday for Chile. It is a day they celebrate the dead by decorating the graves and having large parades around the cemetery. There's plenty to see today with lots of people and also the police and military. It might take my mind off the cold sore that I've got again, it's got to be down to the change in the environment. The Canadian couple said I could sleep at their place, but I refused not wanting to out-stay my welcome. However it now means I have to find somewhere to sleep again on the streets, what a prat. Outside the cemetery are the two main roads that lead a out of Punta Arenas and between these two roads is a stretch of grass and trees where people in tents sell flowers to people visiting the dead. I've decided to pitch my tent among theirs so that I don't stick out too much. Apparently they are there all night.

Monday, 2nd November 1998.
Hot sunny day. 10 miles : Grid : 52 degrees 59 minutes, south 71 degrees 50 minutes west

Managed to get some sleep last night and got to the shop on time. I bought enough ball bearings for both wheels. Used a nut to re-thread the spindles and then replaced with new nuts. Got it all cleaned up, sorted out and was finally underway at 10:36.

Monday, 16th November 1998
15:15 hours. Miles????. Grid : ?????.

The day started with an uphill struggle and a strong headwind. After a while I turned north out of the valley and onto a flat landscape and with it came the winds from hell. The wind was from the west and was extreme, by far the strongest I have ever experienced. For hours I was forced to walk leaning at 45 degrees to my left,-- well stumbled rather than walked. After so long this started to cause pains in my ankle joints. The constant battle to stay on the road had a similar affect to walking downhill for many hours with a heavy bergen on. By the mid-afternoon the wind speed had increased. Now progress was being seriously hampered and I struggled to stay upright. The next thing I knew both the beast and myself were flipped over and off the road. I decided that was enough. I didn't know what damage was being caused to the trailer, so I'm now sat at the side of the road and will wait to see if the wind will die down later this evening and then try to make up the miles I've lost sitting here. The llamas seem to cope by lying flat on their sides, either that or they are all dead, killed by flying debris. My pedometer has been knocked off so I don't know how far I have walked. There are no features on the ground to use in conjunction with the map.

20:12 hours, the same day. Grid : 51 degrees 21 minutes south 69 degrees 32 minutes west. 20 miles

I waited for an hour or so then got pissed off and decided to crack on. The wind didn't let up and it continued to batter me for many hours more. I soon found a long lake which was on the map so I could at least now orientated myself. I got myself off the road into a long scrape in the ground to try and get out of the wind, but it seemed to make no difference. I was knackered but still had to put my tent up, and this was no easy task. As soon as you got it out of the bag the tent would become a rampant wild animal and fought me like a crazed tiger. It normally takes me two minutes to put it up however it took me just under one hour. I just could not find how to do it. The pegs would not stay in the sandy stony ground and the tent lashed about in the air, pegs and poles flying in all directions. It was impossible to pin down. I had come to the end of my tether and was snapping. It was a nightmare. I now have it up, of sorts, however I am not sure how long it will survive.

Earlier on today whilst walking, a large coach pulled up beside me. It scared me to death because I did not hear the thing on the road due to the roaring wind in my ears. It came from behind and all I saw was this great black shadow suddenly appear over me. It drew to a halt and as the doors opened I expected a verbal confrontation about me walking on the road or something, but instead one of the staff from the coach offered me some the water and I was handed a 2 litre bottle of spring water.

Anyway, I am going to eat now then lay in my dos bag and dream about doing it all again tomorrow. Welcome to Patagonia!.

3rd, February 1999. 19:28 hours. 20 degrees C. Grid : 43 degrees 14 minutes south, 70 degrees 51 minutes west.

Slept well. This morning was very cold due to the strong wind. On the road 09:45, setting off into the hard wind, but at least it's downhill. I have been travelling generally downhill for nearly two days now, dropping deeper into the valleys. The sun soon came up and I began to feel a touch warmer. Despite the wind I made good progress. It's good being in the valleys where everything is so much greener with plenty of trees and places to sleep. Today I passed my first wheat fields, running along the valley floor. They are also plenty of cows here.

I continue to be amazed by the amount off birds of prey I see. The sky seems full of them, falcons, buzzards and some very large birds that must be eagles. It was also odd to see them hanging around in groups in the fields, maybe up to seven or eight birds. Possibly they are after insects.

I was having a good day until approx 15:00, when a yolk on the beast snapped clean off, and I was suddenly rendered immobile. I pulled off the road and once again sat face to face with an ugly problem, while being hammered by wind and dust. I first tried to simply use a bungie to get mobile and find somewhere to get out of the wind, but it didn't work. I found the beast almost impossible to pull on one yolk, and trying to replace the missing yolk with a bungie was useless. I pulled off the road a few yards on and paced up and down looking at my problem, thinking. Wood was no good, wire was no good. I trawled the roadsides,- nothing but the odd tin can or plastic bottle. Nearby was an old earthworks used perhaps when constructing the road and it was there I found an old piece of black plastic piping, very thick and ridged. This seemed just the ticket, and a plan began to formulate. I pulled it out of the ground and cut it to length. I squashed one end of the tube and bent it to match the angle of the broken pieces. I then lashed it into the frame. The plastic was very hard and once in shape and in place it proved rigid. I took out my 'Leatherman' tool and using the blade began to whittle a hole for the small piece of bungie that would attach it to my bergen. As I whittled away it slipped off while I was applying pressure. The knife blade shot straight into my left wrist. I flinched and drew back and as I did a bright red jet of blood shot across the ground for about a metre. Wide-eyed I slammed my thumb down onto the cut. "SHIT---SHIT---SHIT ". I sat in stunned silence for while, then slowly released my thumb to look again. Blood spurted out again, and back went the thumb. All of a sudden things didn't seem to be going very well. I sat cross-legged in a cloud of dust kicked up by the wind. " Stay calm, stay calm" I told myself, it's not life-threatening and if the worst comes to the worst I'm on a road and I'll get a lift to Esquel.

It appears I have done one of two things, I've severed an artery or I've nicked an artery. If its the former I could be in for an interesting time, if I've just nicked it my chances are substantially improved. By now I felt a little queasy, which was to be expected, as it's not every day you see your own blood jetting from your wrist. I lay back and looked skywards.

"Relax, just relax, I'll give it a few minutes of pressure and have another look. If I can't arrest the bleeding I'll have to get help". I broke into a nervous laughter, " This is alright," I thought, "sat here in a sand storm among the debris of my trailer with a slit wrist. All I need to do now is to poke myself in the eye and stagger onto some long forgotten landmine!”

I sat up, the queasiness had faded--- what now? I began release the pressure on my thumb, then raised it slowly. I saw a clean 1cm puncture wound that seemed to be held closed by blood clots. I moved my wrist slightly and the wound opened, with bright red blood bubbling out. I replaced my thumb, " This is good", I told myself, "we can cope with this".

The wound however was very deep and I would need to suture it. I began to organise myself. I dug out my alcohol and my medical kit and sat huddled by the broken trailer trying to shield myself from the wind. Rooting through my kit I found a 22mm needle, thread and some gauze pads. I washed the wound carefully with alcohol so that I could see what I was doing, but it was bleeding quite badly. Dust and dirt kicked up by the wind would stick to the clots of blood and it was all quite messy. I tried desperately to keep that area out of the wind, infection being foremost in my mind. After a lot of fumbling around and swabbing, I managed to get a stitch in the centre of the wound, but trying to tie knots in these conditions was a real pain, a very fiddly job with one hand. On my third and final stitch, I pulled too hard trying to close it and the skin tore so I had to put a forth wider and deeper stitch in place. Bright red blood still welled out between the stitches, but after a minute or so it began to clot quite nicely and we had it sorted, --" The jobs a good’un!" I dressed the wound with the gauze pads and a crepe bandage, happy now that I had it under control. I then went back to the trailer where I strapped and bungied the pipe into place and attached it to my bergen.

Bingo!, we were in business, and back on the road. I pushed on for a last 45 minutes and stopped in an area of trees were the valley narrowed. I found a good spot to pitch tent and relaxed. I had still managed to do the days anticipated distance, and despite life’s little problems I was happy, I'd won the day.

Thursday, 25th February 1999. 18:22 hours. 19 degrees C. 30: kilometres.

The forest fire put on quite a display last night, looking like a volcanic eruption. With long clouds of smoke glowing red it looked a hell of a lot bigger than I had first thought, and in fact the fire had spread to a second mountain across a valley, so the whole thing has to be many miles long.

Also last night the wind picked up somewhat and I became concerned about my tent. I was forced to use rocks to secure it as getting the pegs into the ground is extremely difficult, with a good deal of the 'ground' being plain rock. Soon the wind built up to a degree where my tent was being forced flat and making one hell of a noise into the bargain. All I could do was lay there and wait for the worst of it to arrive--- and I didn't have long to wait. By 01:00 it was virtually a hurricane. A huge gust struck and the tent lost its fight. I heard a 'crack' as a tent pole went and having lost its tension a second soon disintegrated. The flysheet ripped off and vanished and the whole right-hand side of the tent lifted, rolling me, in my sleeping bag, into my kit. The whole thing then collapsed on top of me, thrashing around, the poles and pegs going in all directions.

I frantically scrambled out of my sleeping bag and tried to find my boots. Kit was going everywhere. As I scrambled out of the wreckage I was hit by a tremendous blast of sand and dust which immediately blinded me. I threw myself onto the tent to take control and to save it from a disappearing, but now I was in a lot of pain, my eyes filled with sand. I desperately fought to clear my eyes, but it was no good. I began to fumble around and found my flysheet was still attached by two pegs, thank God. I found the broken poles but there was little I could do in this. I grabbed nearby stones and rocks and threw them onto the tent, pinning it to the ground. The air was full of stinging sand and dust and seemed to come at me from all angles. I pulled my sleeping bag from the wreckage and lay next to the beast attempting to get some cover. I spent the rest of the night in a lot of pain, my eyes and nose running continually, believing the night would last forever as I curled up in a ball. The hour's dragged on and on.

At long last the sun began to rise and then I heard rain on my sleeping bag, "Oh God no!". I put my head out and could make out a large black cloud rolling in from the mountains. It now began to piss down and I scrambled out of my sleeping bag yet again, still half blind and with the winds still howling. I grabbed my Leatherman tool, spare bits of tube and some tape and set about trying to breathe life into my dead tent, that now resembled a plane crash. It was similar to trying open heart surgery with one eye, and that operating at 30%, in a hurricane. Another bloody nightmare. The tape would not stick in the rain and kept peeling off. The poles had twisted and bent as they broke so I couldn’t get any of the spare pieces of tube over them to lock them together. I took a pen and lashed it on as a splint but now I had to get the poles in place. As I removed the rocks the tent leapt into the air and for all good it was I might as well have climbed into the ring with Mike Tyson. Engaged in mortal combat, it felt like the tent was winning. The poles were in place, but the splint didn't hold, it gave, but stayed at right angles. Sod it, it will have to do. I tried in vain to replace the flysheet, it was hopeless. The pegs would not go into the ground and I could not hold it down. Twice I thought I had it, then the wind would rip the pegs out and it was off. I was very wet now, in fact so was everything else. As a last resort I threw rocks on top just to pin it down. The tent was a strange shape but stayed up and I crawled into the small space I had created, wet and shivering, eyes throbbing and face plastered in a combination of mud, sand and snot. I pulled my sleeping bag over me and reached up to close the zip of the tent door. As I pulled down the fastener the zip behind just pulled open again.

I now felt exhausted and my eyes were driving me insane. Worse still my one good eye, albeit very sore, began to twitch. A feeling of frustration and anger boiled away inside me. I dug out my hand mirror and saw that my left eye was swelling and had started to close and my right was also swollen and bright red, I looked a real mess and I was scared it would get worse. Time dragged on and then my watch alarm went off at 08:00. I resolved to get a grip and try to keep to my normal routine if possible. It was miserable outside--- wind and rain. Packing was slow, wet and muddy and not to mention difficult in the wind.

I pulled out onto the road in the mother of all foul moods, a potential killer if ever there was one. The rain came in sideways all morning and my eyes continued to give me so much grief. I tried to wash them out with water at one stage but this just seemed to make them worse. After 10 kilometres I found a petrol station on a road junction and discovered I was at least a days walk further south than I had thought, this just added to everything else. The petrol station itself was about 100 metres off the road down a rocky dirt path. I really must have upset the big fellow.

In the Station was a coffee machine, I was going to have a coffee then sit and clean my eyes out. I inserted $1 and pressed for coffee with milk. A thimble appeared with half a mouthful of coffee in it,--" Robbing bastards"! There was no sugar and I asked for some at the counter to be told the sugar was in the machine.

" There is no sugar in the machine".

" There is sugar in the machine".

" There is no sugar in the machine!!".

The man went to the machine and I stayed by the counter. He came back, said nothing, and went to the back of the shop, re-appearing shortly after with some sugar. I sat and dug my eyes out, managing to clear grit from under my eyelids.

Back out on the road I was stopped by a man driving a small Metro, who asked if I wanted a lift. I looked at his car and then at my load. He had to be pissed, kind hearted, but pissed. As I rounded a large range of hills I was expecting to start dropping into some valleys, but was horrified to find a straight desert road stretching for as far as the eye could see, (not that I could see very far). I was 'snapping'. I really wanted to see some green and somewhere to get out of the wind. I knew it couldn't be far, but for crying out loud, where? It was raining again and the wind began creeping back up to hurricane force again as I turned west. The rest of the day was an all out struggle to make headway, which did nothing for my temperament.

As I looked for somewhere to sleep it stopped raining. I sat on the roadside and fixed my tent poles. I found a good place to sleep behind some bushes. My eyes are a lot better tonight and the swelling has gone down also. I'm chin strapped,---- finished.

Monday, 1st March 1999. 33 kilometres. 8 degrees C.

Slept well, another cool day. I set off uphill, climbing slowly. After only a few kilometres I stopped outside an old house to ask for water. There was no one around and across the road I saw there were some apple trees, on the side of the road. These were first class apples, extremely nice. I bagged a load and as I returned to the beast an old Gaucho came down the hill yelling at me in unworkable Spanish. There was nothing I could do, I had to ignore him. He was a short stocky chap dressed in the typical Gaucho style , with hat, poncho and scarf around his waist. A rough looking old beggar, with one of his eyes completely white- blind. He went on at me for some time as I just stood munching apples and packing the others away. This was obviously all about the picking of the apples, so we argued for a while about who owned the trees on the side of the road. It is not uncommon to find apple trees on the verge, similar to Germany. Had these trees been on the other side of the fence in the field things may have been different. He obviously considered me a vagabond and demanded $5. I told him not to bother me any more and bid him good day. As I set off he became very excited and jumped in front of me, reaching into the small of his back as he did so. Gaucho's only have one thing tucked into that position so I knew what was coming. He pulled a commando style dagger on me, which made me a little apprehensive to see the blade waving around a few inches from my belly. He continued yelling threats and demanding money. I took a good look at him, there was no doubt he was tough, but he was probably well past his best knife fighting years. Taking a step back I reached up and drew my machete from the side of my rucksack. This of course shed new light on the situation and I quickly ripped into him with a verbal lashing. It was that this point he got the message and put away his knife. I went on my way, the old gaucho whingeing at me as I carried on up the hill.--- Life in the valley's was becoming quite an adventure.

I climbed until 14:00 by which time it was pissing down, then at last the winding road began to fall rapidly to a valley bottom. Some very impressive views, followed by a series of climbs and drops. I came across a small settlement called El Foyel and found somewhere to sleep, but I was racked off by the howling dogs so decided that I would move on along the valley. By now the rain was heavy, plus very cold in a stiff wind. My hands were numb and it was a real pain trying to erect the tent in the rain with its broken poles, everything was wringing wet through. It continued to rain all the night.

I would have' Apple El Bolson' tonight, a name originating from the brambles boiled with sugar, branded by David and I as 'Bramble El Bolson', hence apples boiled with raisins and sugar becomes 'Apple El Bolson'.

……………………………………………………………………………………………….

Thursday, 11th March, 1999. 19:12 hours. 30 degrees C.

I set off today in the cool shadow of the trees for the first few kilometres, then the road split and I went west into the mountains, towards the pass. It was a very humid morning, with huge trees, dense undergrowth, vines and forests of bamboo. It had a really tropical feel to it and the air was filled with the cries of parakeets and eagles.

It was a long climb up, passed a crumbling mountain road that was slowly falling away down a steep drop into the deep valley. Now and again I came across gangs of men busily trying to rebuild it and keep the road open. There was a section of road that was dirt track, about 32 kilometres of it. About midday I found it and what had been up till now a pleasant day degenerated into a nightmare. The pace slowed to crawl. Plum size stones caused me a real headache. The beast was now suffering big-time, bouncing and juddering along the track. I would inch forward, teeth clenched, just waiting for trouble. I came across the Argentinian border post, a cluster of cars, trucks and coaches being processed through. I joined the queue and it seemed to take forever, but in the end there were no problems and I inched my way off. I was soon stopped by an elderly couple who gave me a load of food they could not take across the border, like vegetables, fruits & meat etc. I had corn on the cob, ham slices, a large wedge of cheese, lettuce and they also gave me some bread rolls so that I could make sandwiches, --- a serious result. Thanking them like a man that had just received a pardon from a death sentence, I sat under the shade of the trees and pulling out one item at a time, rammed them down my face,--- sod making sandwiches!

Setting off I got 10 paces and my axle came apart. This was just the beginning and I was already beginning to lose my temper. I was frustrated by the slow pace and now it would get even slower. I fixed the axle and moved on, but it went again after just 100 metres. Now I was getting really pissed off. This happened seven times and each time I could not figure out why it was going now and had not done so earlier. I had been on plenty of tracks before Rio Mayo but did not have this kind of trouble. My rage at this point was verging on the volcanic. I felt like I was getting nowhere, it was time to sack it for the day. Stop now, before I threw the whole bloody lot from the mountain road.

I sorted my kit out in slow time, feeling very tired. There was a river nearby so scrambling down the steep bank, through the trees, I had a wash under a bridge. The water was ice cold, so cold I could not keep my feet in for longer than a couple of seconds without it beginning to hurt. I washed my hair, and once again as I dipped my head into the water it was almost instant headache. I had hoped to get into the river, --- I think not!

I've made a large wire aerial for my radio so that I can continue to pick up transmissions from Bariloche, which is the only thing now keeping me sane. A hard day, very tense.

Back to top