The Lakeland 3,000’s
by W. J. Anderson
We chose our date well in advance — a week-end in September with a full moon scheduled for Saturday night ; no funny business about completing the job in daylight. Cross sections of the route were plotted and distances and times estimated. Many excuses for not undertaking the walk were put forward and rejected and at last the fateful day arrived and I found myself being shaken into life at 3.30 a.m. to the sound of torrential rain. Here was a gleam of hope, but since it had been raining like this continuously for the past three days it was deemed too late to bring this forward as an excuse. Valuable time was lost in argument and it was not until 5.00 a.m. that a miserable party of five assembled outside our headquarters in Little Langdale and proceeded at their several interpretations of a brisk pace up the road, towards Blea Tarn.
It was fine when we left. Had it not been, perhaps we should have been spared the tribulations of the succeeding hours. It rained several times before we reached Middlefell Farm in Great Langdale and we arrived at Esk Hause at mist level at 7.20. Our passage over Broad Crag and on to Scafell Pike was made in under scheduled time thanks to the well marked track. We did, however, get a little astray on our way down to Mickledore but fortunately retrieved ourselves before much harm was done. Our passage up the streaming rocks of Broad Stand was enlivened by its effect on Vibram wearers who are always known to boast that, “Vibrams are all right on wet rock if you learn to use them correctly.” The occasion did not produce evidence to support this unless of course, experienced rock-climbers are normally given a hand-up when negotiating wet rocks of moderate difficulty with this type of foot-gear!
Scafell summit was reached without delay and Broad Stand “went” more quickly in reverse as gravity came to our assistance. We followed the Corridor route to Sty-Head and had the pleasure of coming out of the mist at Piers Gill. Some patches of sunshine threw the Napes Ridges on Gable into fine relief. This path although a very fine route, is not made for speed and we were 13 minutes behind schedule at Seathwaite, where we arrived in another torrential downpour to be welcomed with steaming bowls of soup by our support party. No praise is too high for this team who had over a period of some weeks been variously cajoled, persuaded, and finally brow beaten into performing this very necessary service. A half-hour’s rest and we were away again in steadily improving weather along the road to Keswick where we arrived some two hours later in glorious sunshine with the clouds just clearing from our next objective — Skiddaw. Our support party again awaited us a couple of miles up the road, at Applethwaite, having re-equipped themselves in Keswick. Just in case anyone should have become confused between the Assault Group and the Support Party let me hasten to point out that the former travelled on foot whilst the latter, car-borne, gave such undoubted moral support as a cheer and a wave as it passed the A.G. on the Borrowdale road.
We loitered too long at Applethwaite. I found myself a comfortable place on a pile of chippings exposed to the health-giving sunshine, and absorbed nourishment ranging from sugar-saturated tea through orange juice to raw egg and milk. We did at last make a move at 2.45 p.m., 42 minutes behind schedule, but arrived on Skiddaw summit 1 hour 45 minutes later in the teeth of a ferocious gale which almost blew us off the mountain. On our way down the normal tourist route we lost more time being too tired to run fast down hill as anticipated, but eventually arrived at a delightful spot on the south bank of the River Greta, at least, Brian and I did. We seemed to have lost touch with the others since leaving Skiddaw summit. Brian, as he himself was at some pains to explain when I suggested later that he continue up Helvellyn with me, had only joined in the walk at Applethwaite because it was a nice day and he needed the exercise. He did, however, at my insistence carry the rucksack and at this point produced quite unexpectedly a most delicious tin of pears.
We pressed on for a further six weary miles of road, down St. John’s Vale. Our Support Party was waiting at Thirlspot where I now found myself the only surviving member of the Assault Group. The others arrived during the course of the next half hour, but owing to certain misunderstandings regarding my state of sanity, when it was learnt that I intended to push on up Helvellyn in the gathering darkness, they decided that it was better to lose one insane climber than to jeopardise the lives of four more responsible members of society. I was therefore sent on my way with many good wishes, admonitions, pullovers, sweets and headshakings.
I was able to cross most of the boggy patches, where the otherwise well-marked path tends to disappear, before the light became too bad. Although it was now overcast and rain was coming down in the usual torrential showers, I found enough diffused light from the obscured moon to follow the path at my present slow climbing pace and proceeded better thus than with the aid of my torch. I had one or two anxious moments about the path and whether I were still on it, but fortunately I made no mistakes and arrived in what seemed a very short time at the summit shelter at 9 p.m. — on schedule in fact from Thirlspot but by now one hour behind on the day. Using my torch on the way down I came out of the mist above Grisedale Tarn to find the sky clearing and the full moon beginning to assert itself, giving a magical aspect to the Tarn and surrounding slopes. I found my way down Green Tongue in brilliant moonlight and was able to call off potential rescuers by a telephone call from The Travellers Rest where I also got my last cup of tea of the many drunk that day. The moon guided my now faltering footsteps over the last six miles to Little Langdale where I arrived at 12.40 p.m. to complete a circuit of some 50 miles and 12,000 feet of ascent.