Fellsman 1969

by J. H. Hooper

At twelve noon on May 17th 1969, along with 291 other walkers, I pushed my way along Ingleton main street as the 1969 Fellsmen Hike began; the super fit ‘hard men’ at the front were running, those less fit travelled more slowly, joking as they went. At this stage of the journey, in bright sunshine, 50 miles of walking is child’s play and 10,000 feet of climbing can be done by anyone; but those with experience of this event know that only half of the starters will finish.

The Hike was first held in 1962 as an event for Scouts and a silver-mounted stone-age axe was given as the prize for the first man home. In 1965 E. M. Tregoning (President of the Yorkshire Ramblers’ Club 1968—1970) presented a trophy for the fastest novice. Since those days it has rapidly developed into what is probably a unique event open to all fell-walkers, under the organisation of Keighley District Service Unit.

Some people may complain that they do not like organised walks but the very nature of the Fellsman means that it must be organised to an extreme degree; by no means does this detract from its being a severe test of endurance and navigation. There are twenty check points (see end) to be visited in set order and a specified minimum of equipment must be either worn or carried to ensure that each entrant is self-sufficient.

Ingleborough summit was reached by Crina Bottom in one hour and four minutes; already the field was spread out over about two miles with the front men half way to the Hill Inn while the rear walkers were still on the lower slopes of Ingleborough. Keeping up a good pace and trying not to run except on short steep descents I headed along the ridge and down the near vertical slope along a broken down wall towards the Hill Inn. Six miles gone, Whernside was the next target, over a wall, through a field containing an athletic bull and two cows, on to the farm road and then, with the sun on my back, up the hillside to glorious views of Morecambe Bay, Barrow-in-Furness and the Lakeland Hills.

A quick descent down the long (slope brought me to Kingsdale Head where I drank some stream water before setting off up the hard grind to the check point on Gragareth. Here, on looking about me, I noticed that there were considerably fewer bodies around than when I left Ingleton. Approaching the summit of Gragareth I found enough spare breath to suck an orange to help me on my way to Great Coum, whence I could see the Howgill Fells in the sunshine before going down via Flinter Gill into Dent.

Dent provided a welcome cup of tea, which I stiffened with glucose, also the opportunity to put a bunion plaster round a blister and, as a precaution, to stick another large plaster under one heel, which had been feeling hot. Then I was away on a line of ascent that I had picked out while coming off Great Coum. Forty-eight minutes later, after 1,400 feet of constant incline I left Aye Gill Pike for a fairly easy walk to the railway tunnel mouth, one mile north of Dent Station, the next objective. Although not the most direct route, it is less wearisome to walk a little further north and then follow the railway track to the station than to cross the grain of the country, which involves some short steep ups and downs.

At Dent Station I stopped only long enough to have a mug of soup and to drink some water which was disguised in a beer barrel (most Ramblers would have preferred the reverse) before pressing on along the road to Garsdale. After one mile on the road I turned on to the open country towards the top of Great Knoutberry. The going seemed suddenly to have become hard, my legs lacked strength and my stomach felt tired. Downhill from Great Knoutberry I moved better, the sight of the check point on the Ribblehead—Hawes road near Redshaw Farm gave me courage and thoughts of darkness spurred me on. I wanted to get as far as possible before nightfall; during the hours of darkness competitors are formed into groups of six as a safety measure; this can be either a hindrance or a help. In my case I felt it would be a hindrance before Fleet Moss; between Snaizeholme Fell and Dodd Fell Hill lies the valley of Snaizeholme and in my estimation the climb from the valley bottom to Dodd Fell is the worst on the whole route, considering the distance already covered. The way I was feeling made me doubt if I could make the climb and still be able to complete the Hike; therefore my plan was to contour round the head of the valley on a longer but less strenuous route. In a group of six I would have to bow to the majority decision which, I had no doubt, would be based on “the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.”

On reaching Redshaw I filled my mug with tea and carried on walking, intending to drink it when cool, but instead 1 threw it away, not wanting to burden my stomach further. Checking in on Snaizeholme Fell completed, I wandered off into the gloom towards the valley head. Very soon, with nobody in sight and darkness fast falling I sank to my knees and vomited; at once I felt better and ploughed on vowing in future not to drink water from beer barrels.

It was dark as I crossed the Pennine Way on the approach to Dodd Fell and before long I heard falling water; switching on my light I saw a large hole in the ground with water running down one side. Whether it was a pothole or some other formation I could not say as size is hard to judge under such lighting conditions. Lambs appear to be sheep; sheep, cows; three foot deep gullies, precipices. Soon after this I met up with five more walkers and together we found Dodd Fell trig, point; as none of the others knew the route I was forced into the lead. A slight veer southward to miss some rough going and to maintain height, then the Roman Road from Gearstones to Bainbridge; the metalled surface made a change to walk on for four or five hundred yards. Sharp right at a wall-end, half a mile on sheep pasture and we reached the door of the Fleet Moss Hotel. After checking with ‘reception’, soup and hot drinks could be obtained. This was my first real break since mid-day, it was 11.23 p.m. and twenty-nine miles were behind me. I was pleased to sit for twenty minutes and soak up tea, glucose and an orange.

Just before midnight our group resumed the journey under a moonless sky. The next stage involved crossing or circumventing the notorious Fleet Moss on a black night and finding four miles away the check point on Middle Tongue. This was in the centre of a flat area of peat hag gouged many feet deep with gullies making it impossible to walk in a straight line or see ahead most of the time; it is easy enough to miss the trig, point in daylight. Deciding that circumvention was the best policy the group headed southward along the road to Oughtershaw for five hundred yards and then started a detour of the bog.  By a process of picking out odd bits of broken fence which were known and walking for a given time on a previously calculated bearing we arrived by wrist-watch and compass spot-on the target at 02.10 hours. Now everything looked set for a fast time, the worst country was behind and only sixteen miles of relatively easy going remained.

As we left the check point low clouds appeared against the dark sky, blowing up quickly from the north-west; within minutes wet snow-flakes the size of pennies were falling in a freshening wind. As this was the 18th of May snow was hardly expected although the weather forecast had mentioned it, but that had been written off as undue pessimism by some meteorologist. The next six or seven hours underlined the wisdom of the ‘Fellsman” organisers in specifying in such detail the required equipment.

Clad now in balaclava helmet and cagoule my boots slid on the wet snow lying on tufts of long grass and as the snow fell faster over-trousers were pulled on. Some of my companions, like the foolish virgins, were running short of light, though it was batteries they needed, not oil. With lack of light and probably with trying to keep our backs to the wind and snow it was not long before we realised that we did not know exactly where we were. It was not quite a case of:

but half of the group said ‘more left’ and the other half ‘more right’. Finally we all agreed to go downhill until we hit the road or at least descended below the snow line. In the grey of dawn a stone barn was seen ahead; where there’s a barn there should be a track, and sure enough there was. The track brought us into the yard at the back of the White Lion Hotel at Cray, only half a mile off course and we were thankful it was not further.

On reaching Cow Pasture two mugs of tea were more than welcome and after twenty minutes’ rest one other member of the group and I set off again, now in daylight which only enabled us to see the thick cloud obscuring the way ahead. My boots were sodden, half buried in two inches of snow and, as far as I could ascertain without removing them, my feet finished at the instep. With helmet on, hood up, hands in pockets and everything laced up snugly we followed one of those useful aids to navigation: a stone wall. I pressed on as quickly as possible hoping to raise enough steam to thaw out my feet. Buckden Pike passed without further event though the route by the wall to Park Rash was more tedious than usual as snow covered the water filled hollows.

Feeling thankful and relieved that only one top remained before the finish, a compass course was struck from Park Rash earthworks diagonally across the snow-covered western face of Great Whernside, calculated to strike the ridge some distance north of the trig, point; visibility was so poor that it would have been easy to pass the check point several feet below and not see it. As we approached the ridge the wind strengthened until on the ridge a full gale blew, driving clouds of fine snow. The check point tent was in amongst the rocks deriving what shelter was available. A hasty consultation followed the check-in and it was decided to drop straight down to Kettlewell via Hag Dike and get below the snow-line. This plan went well except for a fall on snow left from winter. Below 1,500 feet green fields made a sudden change from snow and in Kettlewell it was hard to believe that there was snow above us as it could not be seen for cloud.

All that remained now was a seemingly endless seven mile road walk to Threshfield, where I checked in after 23 hours and 4 minutes, covering approximately 51 miles.

The first man home was Alan Heaton of Accrington who finished in 13 hours 52 minutes, so quickly that he missed most of the snow!

Maps: Ordnance Survey 1″ to Mile Sheets 89 and 90