Wasdale Diary

By J. H. Hooper

Having spent a week at Low Hall Garth (the Club cottage in Little Langdale), at the end of August for three successive years I decided in 1981 to make a change and move over to Wasdale.  The Fell and Rock, provided excellent accommodation for me at Brackenclose.   Surprisingly few YRC members appear to stay there.  I have a soft spot for the place as it was the first climbing hut I stayed in, just twenty years earlier as a guest of the YRC.  For the past three years the weather had been poor up to the day before departure and then changed miraculously on the morning of setting off to give brilliant sunshine for the rest of the holiday.  This year the weeks before the holiday had been good and I could not believe that the weather could hold for another week, particularly considering the weather record for most of 1981.  I packed all the gear I could think of including my winter breeches, but hopefully added my sun-hat.

Saturday morning was reasonable, dry and grey.  When I crossed Blubberhouses Moor from Harrogate to Skipton the weather changed, as it always does, and the sun appeared.  By the edge of the Lake District the mist and drizzle had clamped down and remained so until I was almost in Wasdale.  I sorted out some food and mashed a pot of tea, hoping in vain that the clouds would lift meanwhile.  As a means of warning my body that it was going to have to start working for a week, I decided to walk from Brackenclose along the top of the screes above Wastwater and come down to the Youth Hostel at the western end.  It was already late afternoon and nothing could be seen above 1500 feet.  The walk was uneventful but I was reassured that my legs still worked.  It was warmer than expected wearing breeches.  I always seem to do my first walk in breeches, before remembering that shorts are better, for walking except in winter conditions.  After all, when one of the problems of hill walking is replacing liquid, is it not better to stay cool? When I arrived back at Brackenclose, the Fell and Rock had two representatives installed and the Midland Association of Mountaineers four.  Later on, after a meal, it was very sociable talking while sitting around a blazing log fire.

Sunday: I awoke early to clear blue sky and sun and was soon out dressed in shorts and shirt, but carrying breeches and weatherproofs.  Never having been on Lingmell I took it by the nose straight from Brackenclose.  I was sweating copiously by the time the summit was reached and was rewarded by views all around, and into Piers Gill before the cloud drifted up.  By then I was on Lingmell Col heading for Scafell Pikes.  The summit cairn was not quite so well covered as the last time I was there, only thirty-five bodies against seventy-six.  Once more the sky was clear and the sun hot.  Having ticked off Lingmell on my mental list of previously unattained summits, I thought of Glaramara which was also on the list, so I headed over Broad Crag, Esk Hause, Allen Crags and Pinnacle Bield to arrive at Glaramara in time for lunch which was eaten admiring the scenery and planning the rest of the day.  Derwent Water shone in the distance like a sapphire in a setting of green and brown.  The choice of routes open to me was: via Styhead; back the way I had already walked; or more interestingly drop down to Seathwaite, up by Sour Milk Gill, then Green Gable and Wasdale.  I chose the last.  The Sour Milk Gill climb was cooler because of the generous amount of water rushing down, but the sun was still hot.  Height is gained rapidly on this route and the hanging valley enclosed by Base Brown, Green Gable and Brandreth was soon reached.  The pools looked inviting and I was hot and sticky, so off with boots and socks, a cold soak did wonders for my feet.  The walk was enjoyable and Gable summit was reached at 17.05 in cloud.  I had passed a family party on Green Gable, obviously heading for Great Gable, who had come up by the same route as myself.  Seathwaite to Great Gable took me two hours and twenty minutes, including thirty minutes by the stream.  The family was moving very slowly and had not reached Great Gable when I left at 17.20, in three hours it would be dark and they had no equipment with them.  How do people like that survive? Lone walkers like myself receive a goodly amount of criticism, but surely, is it not far worse for one incompetent person to be in charge of several others in the hills as so often appears to be the case? Calling at the hotel on the way back to Brackenclose I pondered why it had been necessary to change the name from the traditional Wastwater Hotel with its links with the past.  Back at Brackenclose, pleasantly weary after a marvellous day, and revitalised by a shower, I ate a good dinner crowned by a large helping of apple and blackberry pie and custard baked by my wife as an insurance against my own cooking.  Three Fell and Rock climbers up for the day cast envious eyes on the pie but my resolution did not weaken.  I left the remainder in the fridge for successive days.

Monday: The weather was holding good, the barometer in the hall set at ‘Fair’ as if the pointer was nailed in place.  After yesterday I felt a little dehydrated and the legs weary so I decided on a less ambitious day.  Down the road to Netherbeck, follow Netherbeck to Scoat Tarn and then on to Scoat Fell.  The early part of the route seems to be off the beaten track and I had the valley to myself.  Gradually my legs revived as the day wore on and oxygen was pumped round my body, and by the time I was on Scoat Fell they were feeling fine.  Today was definitely the day for visiting Steeple.  The tops were clear in all directions, the view into Ennerdale was map-like It was good to be alive! I had the top of Steeple to myself which was as well because I had the uneasy feeling that there was not much room for anyone else.  The thought entered my mind that if I stumbled against a stone and fell in any direction I should very quickly be a thousand or so feet below.  Back to Scoat Fell and on to Wind Gap where I met the tourist traffic climbing down off Pillar.  The views were expansive with all the tops clear.  In memory I went back to just such a day in 1961 when I was in the same spot during the Long Walk which that year was the Wasdale Skyline circuit.  Coming off Black Sail Pass, just below the ridge I met a group of four youths anxious to know if they were right for the Youth Hostel, and even more anxious if that was the top they could see.  When I returned to base, the FRCC party and the MAM party had left to be replaced by a Fell and Rock member and his wife who generously shared their bottle of wine with me at dinner.  One of the joys of being in the hills is meeting pleasant people.

Tuesday: Not an exceptional morning weatherwise so I did not rush out early.  The clouds were being driven in from the sea in spasmodic groups at about 1500 feet, but quite a lot of blue could be seen.  The decision was taken to walk to Styhead, but to walk in the valley bottom by the stream.  This turned out to be an excellent choice; others could be seen toiling above on the old pony trail and disappearing into the cloud while I stayed below the cloud and had the benefit of a much more interesting route which can be highly recommended.  All good things must come to an end and I too reached the cloud just at the point where I had to connect with the Corridor Route.  Map and compass out! The Corridor was found and the cloud occasionally blew away to let me see a short distance.  In spite of the damp conditions it was still warm and I wore only shorts and a thin shirt.  After Lingmell Col the cloud was dense and because it was so long since I had been in that area, the lie of the land had gone from my mind, so it was again map, compass and watch via Hollow Stones to Mickledore.  The scree from Mickledore was far worse than I remembered.  A family party ploughed upwards; mother struggling in the rear and not enjoying it a bit; father shouting instructions that it was easier on the right; children up with father.  I moved to the left to avoid falling stones.  According to one of my FRCC friends, Lord’s Rake is even worse and is now only safe when frozen hard.  On reaching Mickledore I settled down to eat my sandwiches.  As a concession to the mist I put on my sun-hat.  I heard a voice behind me, and a man in a cloth cap and windcheater, map in hand, advanced.  ‘Where am I on this?’  I pointed to Mickledore on his map.  ‘If I go down there do I get to Borrowdale?’, he asked pointing to Eskdale.  I said, ‘no, that is Eskdale’.  ‘What about down there then?’ pointing to Wasdale.  ‘Yes’, I said, ‘you can get down there but I don’t advise it.  In this weather you will not find your way to the Corridor Route and you will most likely finish up in Wasdale.  Your best way is to go back up Scafell Pikes and back the way you came’.  ‘Eh! If I tell him that, he’ll die, he’s shattered already’, he said indicating the younger of his two sons, aged about ten and thirteen, and without any weatherproof clothing or boots.  ‘I’ve left my car in Borrowdale, I’m certain I can get down there’, again pointing to Wasdale.  He left me to ask someone else, who immediately told him to go back up Scafell Pikes, whereupon the previous conversation began again.  At that point I disappeared into the mist Eskdale-wards to look for the Fox Tarn route.  Ten minutes later it began to pour with rain and I abandoned my search because I had no clear idea of what I was looking for.  Donning cagoule and yellow sou’wester I headed back to Mickledore.  Sixty-five minutes later I arrived at Brackenclose still in the wet and looking like an advertisement for tinned sardines.  What happened to the man in the cloth cap?  Should I have guided him back to Styhead?  The Fell and Rock couple were still out, the rain siled down, so I lighted the log fire and got the kettle on.  A pair from the Scottish Mountaineering Club had signed in, they arrived back three hours later from Moss Gill.  Rain was not going to spoil their climbing!  They asked me if the YRC was still active.

Wednesday: A most glorious morning.  At this time of year the sun shines through the gap between Scafell and the Pikes over Mickledore, throwing the rock face into relief and making the magnificent cliff of Scafell appear to tower over Brackenclose.  I was straight out to get to the top of Scafell which I missed yesterday.  I went by the Green How route, which I found enjoyable, the scenery becoming better the higher one climbed.  On the lower slopes brilliant red rowan berries glistened in the sun against the sparkling stream water.  Near the top I paused to examine the eroded section of Lord’s Rake; it looked terribly loose.  From the summit of Scafell the view was superb.  The rain of the previous day had cleared the air.  South-east I could see the hills of Yorkshire, north-west the Mull of Galloway, the Solway Firth and hills in the background.  Out at sea the Isle of Man floated like a giant battleship.  Between the Isle of Man and the Mull of Galloway some dark grey patches appeared.  Could they have been the Mountains of Mourne? Nearer, the whole of the Lake District was spread out in full colour.  From the summit cairn I took a series of over-lapping photographs covering the full 360 degrees, something to look at in the winter months.  During the last few days I had decided to ascend every summit around Wasdale during the week.  So far I was doing well, the main outstanders being Yewbarrow, on which I had never set foot, Red Pike and Kirkfell.  I looked across the valley at Yewbarrow and speculated how I could include it today while the weather was so good.  Go back down to the valley and then up Yewbarrow? That did not seem very sporting.  How about the sky-line circuit? That was a bit much starting at this time of day.  What about missing the tops of the Pikes and Great Gable, as I did those on Sunday, and by-passing Kirkfell? That’s more like it, but I cannot really miss out Kirkfell just because I don’t like it.  How about Foxes Tarn, Mickledore, the climbers’ traverse, Lingmell Col, Corridor Route, Styhead? O.K. so far; Windy Gap next? no, the south traverse of Gable.  So the ideas came and so the walk went.  Possibly one of the best day’s walking I shall ever have, superlative weather and scenery, a magnificent route and physically I felt unstoppable.  On Mickledore I paused in the sun to watch a party descend Broad Stand, and then had some amusement watching an attempted ascent that demonstrated why the first cleft is named Fat Man’s Agony.  In this instance it was Fat Girl’s Agony.  To be fair it was not the girl who was fat but her load.  Her consort had like a true gentleman allowed her to go first and stood watching as her Karrimat which was rolled up on the top of her load, jammed fast in the gap and she appeared to hang suspended by her back-pack straps, boots scrabbling futilely in the air.  I was interrupted in my amusement by a German pair from Cologne who wished to know ‘Which way to the top goes?’ and ‘Which mountain the highest is?’.  I was tempted to practise my German on them but decided that their English was better than my German.  They were relieved to know that Scafell Pikes was the highest and that there was another route back to the car in Wasdale, as the scree up which they had just scrambled had not benefited their training shoes.  They were staying in Grasmere and were enjoying their first holiday in the Lake District, not having expected so much beauty.  Before leaving them I gave them a sketch map of the lie of the land and route instructions.

Between Piers Gill and Styhead I met forty-six people going up-hill, the thirty-eighth being YRC member John Varney en route for Eskdale.  The heat on the South Traverse was blistering and I was pleased to fill my water bottle with tingling cool water from the spring near Kern Knotts.  Near Napes it looked like Blackpool, with climbers lying in the sun, I said so to one coming towards me: ‘Blackpool?’ he queried, ‘naw we from Wigan’!

Kirk Fell was monotonous with its twin summits and just as hard as usual to get off.  On Pillar an upper-class picnic party was in progress and it was burning hot.  Since early morning I had been dressed in shorts, vest and sun-hat, keeping my shirt dry and clean in my rucksack.  My cool attire must have had certain attractions because as I moved on, the Mummy of the picnic party could be heard telling little Fiona, ‘No’, she could not take her vest off.  As I walked on I could not help thinking how superb, it was and at the same time looking at Yewbarrow and wondering if I would get there before the light went.  Scoat Fell came and then Red Pike.  All the time as I was dropping from Red Pike to Dore Head, two small white blobs were descending Stirrup Crag, very, very slowly.  Could I get up there? I had no information on it other than that there was a route up it.  In fact it took me twelve minutes bottom to top, but it was the sting in the tail of the day.  The last hundred feet following the earlier parts of the day, seemed to me like a spiral staircase with half of the steps removed.

What a splendid day! I celebrated on Yewbarrow by drinking the last of my Kern Knotts water.  Ten and a half hours after leaving I was back in Brackenclose.  On checking, I found that my film had pulled from the spool, and I had not taken any photographs after all!

Thursday: A quick glimpse through the curtains from my bunk showed that another beautiful day had started.  Today there was not much choice for a route if I was to stay with my plan of picking off all the summits around Wasdale in the week.  Only Seatallan, Haycock and Middle Fell remained.  It was hotter than ever, after wearing only a vest yesterday, today I had to wear my shirt to avoid sunburn.  The technique was sleeves down, collar up and sun-hat on the back of my head.  It was a real scorcher.  Greendale valley was deserted as I struck up the side of Middle Fell through rough grass for the summit.

By the time the cairn was reached, sweat was running down my arms and off the end of each finger, my shirt and vest were as wet as if I had been swimming.  The sun was violent.  Organising a few rocks to make a seat for lunch-time, I realised what a good view-point Middle Fell was.  My shirt and vest were spread out on rocks to dry whilst I wore my pullover and sun-hat to protect my body from the sun.  Bare legs were covered by my map and rucksack.  Almost completely covered I lay back and enjoyed the view and sandwiches.  Through binoculars I re-lived the previous day’s walk, picking out the Corridor Route and Gable Traverse, but I was unable to see anyone demonstrating the ascent of Stirrup Crag.  Time to pack up and move on.  Just as I had put on my dry shirt, someone appeared as if from nowhere.  Wearing nothing but shorts and a beard he told me that when he had done Green Crag he would have ascended every summit Wainwright had written about in his seven volumes.  Middle Fell was his last but one.  Something made me think that he drove as near to each summit as he could and then did a quick up and down: maybe it was the spare tyre above his shorts.  Even so it is quite a feat.  After Middle Fell, Seatallan was just a slog on grass and Haycock was a slightly longer slog with a hard pull up by Gowder Crag.  Objectives achieved, I decided to make a quick descent to Netherbeck and if a suitable pool could be found a dip was the top priority.  I found a beauty, wide with greenish clear water fed by small cascade, with a large rock in the middle.  Not quite deep enough for a swim but so cool and refreshing.  I let my body sink until the water reached my neck, I rose out of the water, then repeated the process but this time ducked my head under.  Up for air, then under again, having a drink this time: it made the whole day worthwhile!

Friday: The last day – how short a week is!  I was aware that at 6.00 a.m. my two SMC friends were already getting up.  I asked what the weather was doing.  ‘Another glorious day’ was the reply.  By 6.30 we were all having breakfast.  I remember the comment, ‘It just doesn’t seem British sitting down to breakfast wearing shorts at 6.30 in the morning’.  British or not it was real and the last day for all of us.  I had to agree with my legs that morning when they complained that they had had a hard week, and my feet were beginning to feel sore.  To ease the load I wore studded running shoes, there was not much likelihood of breaking into a run, but they were lighter than boots and I intended to be on grass all day.  The route was to start by the Burnmoor track to Boot.  When I arrived at Boot I would decide which way back.  On the way to Boot I considered a last ascent of Scafell by way of Slight Side, but decided against it.  The better route would be down the road to Eskdale Green, then through the woods to Irton Fell, but I have no love of road walking.  Then the idea occurred to me that maybe I was in time to catch ‘Ratty’ between the two places.  It would be cheating but it was the last day.  Consulting the time-table at Dalegarth station I saw that the little train should have left ten minutes previously, but as I had not heard its whistle or its blowing off of steam, I was optimistic.  On asking the lady in the souvenir shop if the train had gone, I was met with a reply which not only by her words but by her whole demeanour indicated that I was a nut-case.  ‘The train goes half past, and its now twenty to’.  ‘Yes I know’, I said lamely, ‘but I thought that as I had not heard it, it might be late’.  Another glance confirmed what she thought of me.  Obviously ‘Ratty’ was never late.  Moving into the cafeteria I asked if they sold pots of tea, I visualised at least six cups.  ‘No’, I was told, ‘only these’, indicating expanded polystyrene cuplets barely big enough to quench the thirst of a couple of good sized bluebottles.  I settled for a bottle of mineral water and a hot sausage roll before hitting the road again and having blackberries from the hedge as dessert.  Shortly after the Outward Bound School in Eskdale Green I turned up a cool, shady track leading to the River Mite and then into the woods.  The walk through the cool pines was pleasant after the hot sun; spaces between the trees caused by rocky outcrops were covered with purple heather.  As I climbed higher up Irton Fell, if I paused and looked back, I could see the hills in the haze on the far side of Eskdale.  Emerging at last on to the open fellside in the sun and heather, it was easy to follow the track along the top of the screes over Whin Rigg and Illgill Head before the final drop to Brackenclose.  Those members of the YRC who in the early days of the century would take their horse-drawn caravan and spend the summer there climbing from Wasdale certainly knew where to enjoy life.  

I drove away from Wasdale Head late on Friday afternoon and as I left I switched on the radio for the first time that week.  ‘Here is some traffic news for motorists.  Heavy traffic is causing long tail-backs on the North Circular’.

‘The North Circular, whatever is that’? It seemed as remote as the moon.