The white tip of the needle hovers eagerly between the bold black lines in the compass and points south. My mind is occupied with a single thought; I must not let this needle move, a millimetre either way for just one minute could have catastrophic results. Visibility is down to a handful of metres, my teammates following keenly at my heels - the six of us packed closely together as one entity snaking cautiously on along the flanks of Holne and Buckfastleigh Moors.
We appear to exist in a vacuum, all colour sucked out of the milky bubble we float along in. Sound too has been erased and the air refuses to move. The moor’s infamous mists have transformed the landscape into nothing. Time bends and warps in a wormhole of wanton disorientation; I could be anywhere at any time in history. We drop 50 metres and suddenly, spectacularly, time floods back in with a wave of realisation; the world - my world - opens up to the east, falling away steeply to the ploughed fields and clipped copses of mechanised man. In an instant it is swallowed up once more as we climb the rising bulk of Snowdon, doggedly sticking to our 180 degree bearing.
I learn to embrace this experience. It is unique and sought after - that rare moment of being both outside one’s self and at the same time centred wholly within one’s very being. There is no distraction, no creeping brooding fear, no doubts, no aspirations to be knocked down. I am here with one fixed purpose. A grey shape fades into the whiteness from another dimension and beckons me out of my reverie, obliterating this higher state. My fixed purpose has borne fruit and we have reached our quarry. We enter the canvas tent to stamp our card - the sixth of ten. It is good to have goals - a fixed point to aim for - but it is what lies in the in-between, the getting there, that truly captivates and inspires. We button up our Goretex and head out once more - out of time and out of space.