On mountains and (peri) menopause

And trying to conquer both

Earlier this year, I set myself the challenge of climbing my first mountain. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. I imagined myself tackling Ben Nevis, Snowdon or Scafell Pike, standing at the trig point, looking at the spectacular view and feeling on top of the world.

Every time I saw someone post on social media that they’d scaled a mountain, I’d get an urge to run for the hills. What better way to appreciate being alive than to push myself physically and mentally? To be rewarded not only with stunning scenery but also with an amazing sense of satisfaction. The mountains kept calling to me, pulling me in, offering adventure when life in my mid-forties had become a little dull.

The only problem was my fear. I am terrified of rock climbing. I’m fine with hills and heights, but rocks throw me into panic. At thirteen, I went on a school climbing trip where four metres up a rock face somewhere in Sheffield, my legs started shaking violently. I froze, clinging on, unable to move up or down, with no control over my body. Mr Martin, my geography teacher, had to come to my rescue.

Since then, just the sight of a few boulders is enough to make my heart rate rocket and leave me hyperventilating. So, this ambition to climb a mountain came as a surprise. I was determined not to let my fear get in the way, but it was there, threatening to keep me on low ground.

‘Perhaps you should start smaller?’ Chris suggested.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, Ben Nevis, Snowdown, Scafell, they are the UK’s highest peaks.’

The more I thought about it, the more it made sense to start with a challenge where the risk of dying was relatively low.

Chris did some research. ‘Catbells is a good first mountain. It’s family friendly—parents, kids, grandparents and dogs do it.’

‘Perfect,’ I said.

‘There’s a bit of a scramble.’

‘Scramble?’

‘At the top. Over the rocks.’

‘I don’t do rocks.’

‘Only a few,’ he said. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

‘I can do it,’ I said, confident I would cope. It’s not like I had to climb a rock face or anything. This mountain was suitable for all the family.

I made my first attempt in April this year. I say attempt. We drove to the Lake District, and it rained, not a drizzle but a downpour that lasted all weekend. The wind howled; the rain came down sideways. Catbells was hidden in cloud. Visibility on the lakeside path was bad enough. I couldn’t even imagine how treacherous the conditions would be on the tops. ‘We’ll do it another day,’ I said. ‘Otherwise, my first mountain is likely to be my last.’

Spring turned to summer, and it felt like time was slipping away. If I didn’t commit to doing it, would I ever? One morning in July, I woke up and decided that I needed to make this happen. I grabbed my phone, booked a hotel in the Borrowdale Valley, across the water from Catbells, staying for two nights in August. I planned everything. Even coordinating the adventure around my period, because I wouldn’t want to be clambering up a mountain when I had that.

I should say that for 30 years my period has never stopped me from doing anything, but recently the pain is dreadful. For a few days every month, I’m like a shell, drained of so much energy it feels like I’m moving through treacle. I become an emotional wreck. Talking to anyone is hard work. Then there’s the loss of confidence, the loss of myself, really. I’ve tried to get HRT from my doctor (a man), but he doesn’t believe in it.

Anyway, I’d planned my mountain adventure for a time when my oestrogen levels should have been rising, giving me energy and making me feel like Wonder Woman. But my perimenopausal body decided that my period would come four days late. It arrived as we were setting off for the Lakes, which meant that day two—when it reaches a whole new level of horrible—would be the day of the climb.

Terrific.

The evening before our mountain attempt, we walked from our hotel to the Mary Mount Hotel, three quarters of a mile down the road. I struggled to move, stumbled over a tiny rock, and almost landed in the gutter.

‘There’s a chance I might not be able to do this climb,’ I told Chris, immediately switching from being emotional to raging at the unfairness of it all. ‘I’ve planned everything and now this happens!’

He listened and said nothing.

That night I couldn’t sleep. The pain was intense, dimmed only slightly by the paracetamol I’d taken. I breathed deeply, in and out, trying to relax through the contractions and thinking how ridiculous perimenopause actually is.

The morning of the climb, I sat in the hotel restaurant, dosed up on painkillers, feeling very much like a zombie. My body was present, but everything that makes me, me, had effed off. I sat there wondering what had happened to the go-getting, energetic person I used to be.

A woman at the opposite table was having a meltdown because she couldn’t get a banana for her baby’s breakfast. ‘It’s been a stressful morning,’ she said. She snapped at everyone, particularly her husband. ‘Don’t tell me what I should do!’ and when she ran out of sourdough toast for her avocado breakfast, I thought she was going to launch her plate across the room.

I wanted to go over and give her a hug; tell her it was okay. That being a mum is hard work and stressful but to treasure the moments, because children grow up so fast. But I reminded myself that I’ve never had children and what the hell do I know about motherhood, anyway?

I thought of my niece, Olivia, who is almost a teenager and how much she has grown and gained her independence, and how much I miss those baby days. The sense of loss was heavy. Tears pricked my eyes, and I almost sobbed into my porridge. I put my head down and blinked away my tears. And then, as if the loss of my niece wasn’t enough, the fruit buffet only had prunes, grapefruit and tinned peaches. ‘Prunes,’ I growled at Chris. ‘Who eats prunes?’

Like the woman with the avocado, I wanted to launch my plate across the room.

‘We’ll have to give it half an hour,’ I told Chris. ‘I’m really not my best.’

We busied ourselves by setting up my walking poles, which Chris had bought me for my birthday as a joke. Now it came to it, I intended to use them. Given my current state, anything to stop me toppling off the mountain would help.

‘There’s no way, I’m coming all the way here not to climb it.’ I jabbed my pole in the direction of Catbells, as though the mountain was to blame for my wayward hormones. ’I have to try.’ Realistically, I knew I might fail.

We took the road from Borrowdale towards Grange, following the river upstream, before crossing the bridge and heading to Catbells, which loomed in the distance. I wondered how I was going to get to the top and back down again without having to call on Mountain Rescue. We walked for three miles, my legs warming up, so that by the time we arrived at the foot of the mountain, I was feeling a little better. We stopped at the tea van for a honeycomb crunch before taking the mountain path.

The first part was short, sharp, steep, and narrow. We climbed high very quickly. I put one foot in front of the other, and tried to avoid looking up or down until I knew I was on wider, safer ground. There I’d stop and take in the view, appreciating the spectacular sight of Derwent Water from on high.

We went again, up another steep section. I was grateful for the pole—knowing it was there to help me balance made me less anxious. Just as I was thinking I could do this, that it would all be fine, I spotted the rock face. I looked for a path around it, but it was solid rock.

‘I can’t do that!’ I turned back the way we’d come, ready to make my escape, but the path was narrow, and crowds of people were trudging our way.

‘You’ll be fine,’ Chris said.

I took a deep breath, aware that my blood pressure was rocketing, the adrenaline coursing through my veins, screaming, ‘Danger, danger, abort, abort.’

I had to go on. I passed my pole to Chris and grabbed the rocks with both hands, holding on as tight as I could, taking my time to make sure my footings were firmly in place.

My strategy was to follow the woman in front. Where she went, I went, placing my hands, feet and knees in exactly the same spots as she did. I focused on nothing but one movement to the next. I made it on to level ground again, dragging myself over the top, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief.

‘You said this was family friendly,’ I said to Chris. ‘You didn’t say I’d end up on my hands and knees crawling up it!’

‘You’ve done it now,’ he said.

Skelgil Bank, the first rocky section towards Catbells

A man overtaking us laughed. ‘People think that’s it,’ he said. ‘They don’t know what’s coming.’

‘What’s coming?’ I asked.

He smirked and went on his way.

As we crossed the Catbells ridge, it became obvious what was next—an even bigger and steeper rock face, but once over that I’d be at the top of the mountain. I was almost there.

The final section to the top of Catbells

I looked around, ready to follow someone up, but there was no one willing to take the lead, and I wanted Chris behind to catch me in case I fell. With shaking hands, I grabbed the first rock and then another, carefully moving my knees and feet into position, aware that I was dangling off the rock face.

‘I’m like Tom Cruise at the start of Mission Impossible,’ I shouted to Chris.

‘You’re doing well,’ he shouted back.

Another man overtook me, trotting up like a mountain goat, making a show of how good he was. I ignored him and focused on my crab-like technique. Slowly but surely, I hauled myself up and over, amazed at what I was doing.

We sat on the grass, looking at the views across the beautiful Derwent Water and Skiddaw. ‘I know it’s not Everest or anything,’ I said. ‘But I’m so proud of myself.’

The endorphins were flying through my body. I’d climbed my first mountain. I’d done it. And I’d done it when I wasn’t at my best, which made the achievement even more special.

As we walked back down, I thought of the Tampax advert from years ago—the one where a woman in cycling shorts is roller skating to Dr Alban’s ‘It’s My Life’ (it must have been a man who made that advert).

As a young woman, I’d seen it and wondered why a period would stop me from doing anything. Little did I know my hormones would lie dormant for 30 years, ready for the moment I turned 45 when they would hit me like a force ten gale. Now, I could relate to the roller-skating woman. I was grateful my raging hormones had not stopped me. It felt like a victory.

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