As you will see I am petrified of heights and have little sense of navigational direction!
The escape plan proved our salvation, but not for the expected reason. We set off crawling down a steep stream gully that looked like it would dive kamikaze-style into Langdale. This looked just as dangerous as sitting down and doing nothing. Cogs began to churn inside my weary brain, thoughts somehow gelled into coherence, and that allowed the proverbial penny to drop.
Another stare at the map demonstrated the tiny gorge we were sliding down. I suddenly realised where we were. I don’t know if it had been lack of concentration or just over confidence, but our error was that in the mist we hadn’t properly ‘summited’ Rossett Pike.
This was a schoolboy error, and one I had made a couple of times previously. If you find yourself lost despite having been following the right path, it is usually because you haven’t gone as far as you think. We had assumed that a ‘false summit’ was the top of Rossett Pike. It wasn’t. What was worrying was the length of time it took me to realise our error.
However I was now certain of our position. This did a marvellous thing to our state of mind. Fear fled, the fires of confidence re-ignited our spirits and the cold was no longer noticeable. We turned back and reached the true summit of Rossett Pike. Then Rich and I had a short chat. Should we still take the safe option and get off the mountain, or should we gamble and go for one more peak, even though the next mountain was the huge beast, Bow Fell, over 900 metres high.
We chose to gamble.
With compass back in hand we set off on a bearing that headed straight for the crags up the north-east face. Immediately the ground shot upwards, and a massive dark shadow loomed over us, more sensed than seen.
The climb was ridiculously steep – more a scramble. The higher we got the steeper it became. Swirling thick mist clouded any view beyond 30 metres. Looking down was terrifying. An alarmingly steep, rocky and slippery mountain side disappeared downwards into the fog. One fall could prove fatal. Upwards the view was identical. We pressed onwards, feeling a little trepidation. Trepidation turned back to fear when we reached snow.
This was mostly patchy, and we could skirt around it, always making sure we returned to the correct compass bearing to continue the climb. But then we reached a snow filled gulley, some twenty feet wide and stretching maybe a hundred feet downwards. With the only alternative being a full-on rock climb up a high crag the gulley had to be crossed. Fear intensified with the prospect of a fatal slip off the mountain.
Thankfully the studded shoes held firm. I crossed slowly and carefully. Rich looked well out of his comfort zone, but followed in my footsteps. This wasn’t fun (but a little exciting) and we endeavoured to avoid any further snow fields.
The fear prompted us to reassess the wisdom of the climb. My altimeter indicated we were at a height of 750 metres. It was shorter to go up than back down, and upwards on such a steep gradient is safer than downwards, so we continued with hearts pounding and adrenaline filling our tiring bodies.
After several more minutes of clinging and climbing I hauled myself onto the summit plateau, and called back to Rich to let him know it was the top. It was like another world up there. The visibility was terrible. The wind howled and hissed through piles of rocks that were tall, sharp and angular, all looking like they had been dropped from space and impaled onto the mountain top. It was as if we had been teleported to a different, hostile world.
The true peak was 500metres to the south, at the other end of the summit plateau. Getting there was difficult. The rocky ground was extremely hard to move over. A few times I pulled ahead of Rich by 20 metres or so and he had to shout loudly to call me back so as not to get separated.
When we reached the cairn at the top we were relieved, but didn’t hang around to savour the victory. It was a scary place to be in those conditions and self preservation instincts were in overdrive. Every sense was screaming at us to get back down to safety.
Our escape route involved taking a tiny path that dived down into Langdale from the summit. The path was completely invisible from our position and we had to take another compass bearing to climb off the right point of the summit, before searching around in the mist until we found some footprints that headed downwards over compacted snow. Once we were confident we were on the trail we set off down it, carefully at first, hoping the valley bottom would come quickly. It didn’t.
The gradient was severe, the rocky ground extremely slippery and the visibility almost non-existent and worsening. The track swung left and dropped less steeply. Rich’s niggling leg injury was slowing his descent, but for too many long, foggy minutes we plodded onwards.
And then a remarkable thing happened. As rapidly as falling through a trap door we dropped below 300 metres and the world was reborn. The air was clear, there was no wind and we could see for miles albeit only downwards or horizontally. It was as if we had suddenly clambered out of a deep pool of water in which we had been drowning. Here, peace and tranquillity abounded. Sheep lay in the fields, quietly chewing grass. Farmers ambled around doing whatever it is that farmers do. But above our heads fear still darted around in the mist, looking for victims. The interface between cloud and valley was so defined you could almost stand with your feet in the clear air and your head in the clouds.
Suddenly feeling safe we breathed a sigh of relief. We could even see the Old Dungeon Ghyll hotel in the distance, where the car was parked. After another fifteen minutes we were there, and were greeted by Daft B who was sitting drinking coffee, his dirty bike and biking clothes laid on the ground next to him.
His adventure had been similar to ours. In total Rich and I had made nine summits and (vaguely) learned the route between them. But we had returned safely. We had also learned some important lessons; most notably that bad weather would make the BG extremely difficult.
With hindsight it may have been a good thing that we got lost where we did. Had we ventured further before hitting trouble we might have been floundering around hopelessly on the Scafell massif, and Scafell is not a good place to be lost in the cold and mist, wearing running gear. I’m sure the coroner would agree.
Fear – it’s not a bad thing at all.The escape plan proved our salvation, but not for the expected reason. We set off crawling down a steep stream gully that looked like it would dive kamikaze-style into Langdale. This looked just as dangerous as sitting down and doing nothing. Cogs began to churn inside my weary brain, thoughts somehow gelled into coherence, and that allowed the proverbial penny to drop.
Matt did go on to complete the BGR inside 24 hours in what was an epic journey. It is something that everybody must see or experience for themselves. It's truly magical
Matt did go on to complete the BGR inside 24 hours in what was an epic journey. It is something that everybody must see or experience for themselves. It's truly magical
