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Scafell Pike
The last light is fading...night steals in from all sides...the van purrs its way north and east away from Snowdonia, the scent of lilacs and the gentle strains of a late night radio show lulling our brave band of adventurers into a state of blissful rest as sleep draws us into its feather-like embrace....well at least that's the way the screenplay would go. Unfortunately, Circumstances had heavily edited the ****** script so the reality check goes like this:
"Take 10 people, lightly garnish with sweat and midges, cram them into a 12-seat hire van with 1/2 a ton of kit, two highly aggravating rattles, dodgy suspension, a minus torque power figure, a radio stuck on 'Intermittent FM', seats that were designed and fitted by a contortionist, and drive them at breakneck speed (well, downhill in a favourable wind) for 4.5 hours on the sort of roads where cornering on two wheels and the occasional airborne foray is obligatory..." - do I have to paint a picture? We are not talking luxury coach here...this is an LDV which, by definition, is very nearly a contradiction in motoring terms. Given the body/kit mosh pit that quickly evolved in the back it's not surprising that Mr. Sandman gave up trying to strut his stuff and stalked off muttering about '...job description, union rules, lack of proper respect and something about getting his cousins Exhaustion and Cramp to pay us a visit later that day out of spite...'
With sleep relegated to a distant longing, we decided to eat while we had a chance before adopting various states of attempted repose that would have had Houdini checking the copyright. Meanwhile the leaning tower of kit had developed rudimentary intelligence and was trying to annex the central passage and prevent us getting to the bananas and water. This was sorted out by pummeling some of the larger packs into a makeshift mattress. However sleep was still elusive due to an ongoing guerilla war staged by some of the smaller rucksacks who booby-trapped comfortable looking areas with lumps and lobbed the occasional hiking boot down on the unsuspecting passengers below. Ahhh, five star luxury all right...and I could see them all through the side window!
So we wound our merry way onwards and upwards towards Cumbria and the Lake District, listening to some radio talk show when the signal deigned to put in an appearance, nibbling on energy bars and generally going stiff in various crucial joints. The journey was a little longer than planned...in fact such was the confidence in our chauffeur that when four hours had passed there was a serious concern that some joker had moved the road signs. However this was more than likely down to the X-variation (...like magnetic variation, only more rural and Machiavellian in nature...) whereby a mile on the map has the factor '?' applied to it (where ? is a value between '0' and 'just over the next hill, lad') Cartographical inconsistencies aside, the journey went as well as can be expected although selective memory has edited out the bits where although passenger democracy was for brakes, the driver had the casting vote. The resultant airborne yells and general swearing did wake us all up though.
By the time the signpost for Wasdale Head arrived, dawn was making its way over the horizon. Just as well really because as soon as we reached the final T-junction the excitement quota slipped up a notch or two. Passengers in the front and on the right were greeted with a veritable woolly minefield of sheep covering every available surface, while passengers on the left could see the terrified faces of the occupants of another white hire-van cornering on the obligatory two wheels while trying to avoid us, the sheep, the rocks and a very early and in all probability, terminal bath in Wast Water. There followed a moment of complete silence broken only by the occasional irate bleat, then the sharp realization that one less potential parking space was careening its way up the road ahead of us. So with a determination that would have given entropy a moment's unease, Pete picked our way through the sheep and headed off up the road with the single-minded approach that only a town driver hunting a parking space can display.
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On the way down, Wast Water in the background L-R: Paul, Graham, Simon, Hannah, Andy S, Steve, Andy A |
View from just below the mist looking east towards Stickle Tarn |
Wasdale Head was a veritable hive of activity at 4am. There were 4 other vans (1 leaving, 2 waiting, 1 unloading) as well as ourselves, plus several campsites showing signs of life. By now were familiar with the 'booted and suited' routine so 15 minutes of warming up later and we were on the march again. Only two of our group have walked the Pike before, but they had come from Seathwaite so the route we were using was a complete unknown. Everything we had read and been told about Scafell, however, pales in comparison to the reality. This may be the lowest peak of the three, but the climb is further in distance than Snowdon, the gradient is unrelenting being crammed into a much shorter base-distance and if that isn't enough, the terrain is punishing. Psychologically we had prepared for the worst, but we still found the going tough. To prevent our group getting strung out we started to walk in 100 yard bursts, followed by a rest to allow everyone to regroup and get their breath back. If this sounds like hard work it's because it is...all you can see is more 'up' and the ground is rocky and uneven once you leave the lower slopes. For once, although the view down the Water and out to Sellafield was spectacular, none of us were really in a position to appreciate it, all of us being focused on the next stretch of climbing. Unfortunately we lost Lorraine on the lower slopes with a case of bad knees, something that would come back to haunt us all to a greater or lesser extent over the course of the whole challenge. As the climb wore on conversation became stilted and any talking was on how best to tackle the next bit. The higher we went, the worse the clitter became and eventually we ended up scrambling up a rock slope marked with cairns. Once again the summit was hidden by fog, but we could tell we still had a fair way to go from the surrounding hills so it became a case of just putting our heads down and getting on with it. Talking about this part afterwards we all agreed that this became a real case of "Us vs. The Hill" such was the effort that the ascent had become. In fact we were so intent on keeping moving that by the time we reached the main cairn at the top, it took as a moment to realise we had arrived. The second peak was greeted with a ragged cheer but this was quickly replaced by more mundane matters. It was cold, wet, windy and we were more concerned with the damage we had done to ourselves than admiring any view. We took 5 minutes for another bite to eat/drink, a few photographs and a general health and morale check (group huddle!) and then began the slog back home. The weather proved to be fickle as always.100m down the slope we found ourselves with sunshine and clear views again which put a whole new perspective on the morning and added a spring to our steps. However, the climb down is just as strenuous and, after the summit scramble, intensely punishing on your legs. Aches and pains aside, we managed to get back to the van in 3.5 hours and never has a metal box with wheels looked so inviting! The fact that we had cleared Scafell, the second and by unanimous agreement, the hardest climb put us all on a high. More importantly it cemented team spirit. We had handled whatever unknowns Scafell could throw at us and come out, as we saw it, ahead. We knew that Ben Nevis was the longest and highest in terms of walking distance, but we were actually looking forward to it now...positive waves indeed.
So, a further 15 minutes to strip off wet gear, eat and drink, generally be annoyingly happy at 7:30am and pack the van and we were on the road again, heading for the border and the Glens....
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The weather clears just below the top of Scafell Pike... |
...whereas it was not so co-operative at the peak! L-R: Paul, Graham, Andy A, Blair Hughes project... |
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| To Snowdon... | To Ben Nevis... |
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