What I learned about mental health after hiking through Norway with the Royal Marines

I’m not ashamed to say I was struggling – and my ego hated it. As I felt the hand on my back and the calming voice of Captain Tim Pitcher telling me to “Put 50 per cent effort in, I’ve got you,” I was silently berating myself for slowing down the entire team. In fairness, I was cycling with the Royal Marines and I was recovering from a bout of glandular fever, so my inadequacy didn’t come as a shock to me. I didn’t, however, expect my sorry backside to be slingshotted up the hill.

My latest performance on the bike aside, I am no stranger to physical journeys, although I make a point of going nowhere fast. I’ve cycled halfway around the world, from Malaysia to London, paddled down a remote river in the Amazon – a world first – and spent a fair amount of my time poking around in unusual locations trying to uncover interesting stories.

That is how I ended up with a group of eight serving and non-serving Royal Marines as they traversed Norway over two months by bike, kayak and on foot, investigating some of the Commando raids of the Second World War and raising money and awareness for mental health through the Royal Marines Charity (theroyalmarinescharity.org.uk). Thankfully, I was just joining for a week’s stretch from Bodo to Trondheim, as I am pretty sure that two-month ETA would have been quadrupled. 

Robust mental health is key for any adventure. As my partner remarked when I was threatening mutiny on our bike ride from Malaysia to London: “These are not physical journeys but mental ones.” The phrase struck a chord as it’s more often my mind than my body that has seen me through – and I’ve found being in nature a weirdly powerful force to help me do this. For me, it’s a place of healing. Perhaps it’s because it’s a place of non-judgment – the forest doesn’t care what you look like; the hill doesn’t care how much you’re sweating; the beach does not care for deadlines yet keeps its own time. 

Nature has a way of disarming us, of allowing us to accept what is. Conversations that feel awkward face-to-face over coffee suddenly seem more comfortable, dare I say, more natural, as you are walking side-by-side or kayaking along together. This is how Lee, a former Royal Marine and my kayak guide in Norway for the day, got on to the topic of how he tried to take his own life after experiencing post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) in Afghanistan. 

By his own admission, Lee told me that previously he was not the sort of man you’d want to cross. An outdoor life had saved him, it had changed him. A forager and wildlife enthusiast, he truly believes in the healing power of the sea and spent much of our day kayaking together pointing out wildlife I would otherwise have missed. What he had experienced in war led him to take solace in kayaking – and he has subsequently made it his job, regularly taking out others who suffer from PTSD and psychological wounds. 

As we paddled through the calm waters of Norway’s fjords, snow still on the mountain tops, it struck me that my perceptions of “Bootnecks” might need to be re-evaluated. Popular culture presents Marines as the embodiment of macho but perhaps “resilient” is a better word. As I’ve learnt myself, a human can only do so much alone and sometimes the most resilient thing you can do is to ask for help – but it’s about knowing how to ask, or how to accept it when it’s offered. 

Over the course of a week, I hiked up glaciers, kayaked across fjords, cycled and slept under canvas with the team – to the point where I could identify the snorers. Adventure has a habit of bonding people. It also has a habit of making you a bit uncomfortable. Physical and emotional discomfort is often thrown up – the things you don’t want to deal with, be it ego, issues or past regrets, come to the fore. I find this cathartic as it’s only when I accept that pain exists that I can start to deal with it. 

“I did a couple of tours in Afghanistan, lost my best mate, blown up in front of me, a mate of mine took his life. I know I’ve got to talk about it but I don’t know how best to do it,” one of the team said as he opened up to me on the journey. 

From what I could gather, gallows humour and not showing too much emotion have been the solutions to date. 

“This is great for the minor stuff and you can get away with this for a long time,” my companion added. “But the problem then comes when you’ve got a cumulative build-up [of trauma] and constantly skimming it off the top with little jokes just doesn’t work. 

“There are structures and procedures in place to get help; there are doors open everywhere for us, and that’s awesome; but the culture of talking about it is still developing. I think you should be forced into talking. I think we need to be ordered to get mental health support. I also think we should have an hour a week with our chain of command, sit down or go for a run and a chat. Not spinning stories and sharing the same old banter but having a meaningful conversation. 

“Sometimes you need to put yourself in strange environments to enable that conversation. I’ve got a few civilian friends and we are really tight as a group because we will go mountain biking in the middle of nowhere in Scotland for three days. After 10 hours on the bike, we sit under a bivvy, absolutely exhausted, then everything comes out – but it’s hard to get into that specific situation to enable all that conversation in everyday life. It’s about getting out there, doing something unique, releasing a few endorphins and then it opens it up, but those situations are hard to come by in a run-of-the-mill Monday-to-Friday sort of lifestyle.” 

He went on: “I get frustrated when we get so much press because I’ve got mates in the NHS who are dealing with trauma daily and we’re doing it once in a blue moon. They don’t have half the support we have. Where’s the support for those guys?”

I have thought about this conversation nearly every day since. Creating cultures where it’s OK and positively encouraged to open up is, in my view, not only important but vital for the well-being of all parts of society. My physical struggle on the bike was obvious; the mental struggles of those around me weren’t. As my time with the Marines came to an end, I thought back to that day on the bike. I realised that it was only embarrassing because I’d defined it that way. In reality, I was sick, not as fit as I’d have liked to have been, and really struggling. 

However, nearly 62 miles later, it was only with the help of the team that I’d rolled into camp. I wasn’t fast but with their support I kept going. As I was pushed up that hill, my ego’s worst nightmare coming true, something strange happened – I relaxed. I leaned into the hand that was supporting me. I told myself that, mental or physical, it’s OK to struggle – we all do. It’s part of being human. For want of a better word, struggle is natural. I’m not ashamed that I needed physical support going up a hill. As my time with the Royal Marines showed me, mental support is no different.