August 11: Living to Tell the Tale
Dear reader, by now you may have gathered that when an Englishman (or woman), especially one from the north, asks you if you would like to go for a walk, what they really mean is a hike. In fact, a more accurate translation would be "a difficult hike of at least three hours." If you are told it will be a long walk, call your family and friends, and make sure your will is in order.
Today Rachel took me on a long walk up the highest peak in England, Scafell Pike (3,209 feet). We left at 7:45am because the car park fills up by 9am, and the walk to the top and down takes at least 6 hours. At 8:30am the car park had only one other vehicle, as the weather called for clouds and light rain all day. Geared up with proper hiking clothes, boots, lunch, maps, raincoats, water and chocolate, we began our ascent.
Near the bottom, a stone bridge over rushing water.
The hill in the background is NOT Scafell Pike.
Heavy mist hid the mountain for most of our journey.
There are many routes to follow to the top of Scafell Pike. The one we chose was more gradual, though still steep, as my calves and butt can attest. It was sprinkling rain for the first two hours up, but nothing too annoying. The terrain was tough, with lots of rocks and streams to navigate. We saw hardly any other walkers, though we did meet a very nice pensioner (retiree) from Belfast who would end up walking with us over the top and down. As we came within 90 minutes of the top (though we had no idea how much further we had to go), the weather deteriorated. We climbed into a heavy mist, and the wind and rain picked up speed.
A view back down the trail as we walked up into the mist.
The lake you see is called a Tarn, a Cumbrian word for
a body of water at some elevation. At this point we are only
about one-third up the trail.
About an hour from the top I was soaked through to my knickers and the wind made it even more difficult to place your foot on the wet rocks without slipping. The terrain on this volcanically-formed region of the Lakes was like walking on Mars (or, what I imagine it might be like to walk on Mars). Through the accurately-named Boulder Field, we couldn't see more than 5 feet in front of us and had to call out to each other to make sure our party of three was intact. I was practically crawling over the rocks on hands and knees. Yes, at this point I did question our goal of reaching the peak. But Tim, the 62 year-old man from Belfast, was on a Four Peaks Challenge, meaning that he was climbing the highest peaks in England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland. He was determined, and I figured if this senior citizen could make it, so could I! He would later tell me that he nearly turned around, but that the perseverance of Rachel and I spurred him on.
Three and a half hours from the car park, we did reach the top. Rachel had promised a shelter on the peak, so I imagined a nice hut where we could eat our sandwiches and have some of Tim's hot coffee. What we got was a large stone structure with a plaque about men from the Lake District who "fell for God and King, for freedom, peace and right in the Great War." Cheers to fallen heroes, but bullocks for us! The wind was moving at 50mph and it started to hail. We spent about 3 minutes at 3,209 feet and quickly began our descent. Sadly I have no pictures from the top of Scafell Pike. On a clear day the views, Rachel tells me, are stupendous. Maybe next time...
The way down was faster, but no less precarious. Actually, it was more precarious than the way up because it is far easier to turn your ankle or bust your knee climbing down slippery rocks. Unfortunately the weather followed us for quite awhile. We decided to descend via Corridor Route and saw many walkers heading up. We warned them about the top, especially those who seemed ill-prepared to walk into poor weather. I was quite amazed at the apparent stupidity or audacity of some of the hikers dressed in jeans, trainers and a thin wind-breaker. At the top we did see a father, son and grandfather. The young boy, about 10, had fallen on the rocks while climbing up, busting his two front teeth, scraping his cheek and hitting his lip, which was swollen to about four times its normal size. Seeing him made me quite angry. Honestly, adults probably shouldn't have mounted Scafell Pike in that weather, let alone a child.
One of many waterfalls along our route.
While being blind in the mist near the top was scary and navigating the wet crags just over the peak had me praying I would not misstep, the real challenge for me that day took about 5 minutes on Corridor Route. As my closest friends know, I suffer from a bit of vertigo. I can't stand near the edge of cliffs, walk up to the railing on tall buildings or even pass over bridges (on foot) if I can see the bottom. I guess I am a bit embarrassed by it because I know my fear of heights is irrational. A gust of wind is not going to lift me over the railing or push me off the cliff. Phobias are rarely rational, but I would argue (in my defense) that today I had reason to worry.
At one point on the way down we had to strafe a rock face. Let me see if I can adequately set the scene: Imagine a rocky path that just seems to end on the edge of a cliff. The cliff is part of a tremendous gorge and hovers over a very long drop down to a waterfall. The cliff is wet, my boots are muddy, the wind is blowing, and my hands are cold and wet. Turning around means going back over Scafell Pike (through Boulder Field in the mist), which is now about an hour and a half behind us. Many people have traversed this route, and I can see foot and hand holds along the way. Granted, some of the footholds are narrower than my size 9.5 shoe, but I try not to think about this while I also try not to look down, or to the right, or to the left, or up. I was terrified.
Rachel coached my every step, and I grasped each hand hold with white knuckles before moving an inch. I felt nauseous and light headed, and I had to very consciously breathe through my nose and out my mouth to keep from hyperventilating. I made it, and much to my surprise, without vomiting. We stopped soon after that for lunch (finally) because the wind was calming and the rain stopped. Tim shared his hot coffee, and we shared our chocolate. As we looked down the trail to our starting point at Seathwaite Farm, the sun was shining on the car park. A couple of pictures from our descent:
Still a ways to go down to Seathwaite Farm,
where the sun struggles to peek through.
Looking back up as we reach Seathwaite Farm.
It is 11:00pm local Oughterside time, my leg muscles ache and I can feel my body yearning to sleep. It is unfortunate I wasn't able to look down upon the glorious Lake District from England's tallest mountain. But I accomplished something today I honestly didn't think I could. At least a dozen times I was convinced I would have to turn around, and twice I thought I might die on Scafell Pike. Today's walk was the most physically difficult experience of my life thus far, and a significant mental challenge as well.
My guidebook has a brief description of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, England's "father of rock climbing", who set out in August of 1802 from his home is Keswick to make a nine-day solo tour the Lakes. He was on top of Scafell on his fifth day and found himself on a similar, though I am sure far more dangerous, cliff face with narrow ledges as my harrowing pass. He wrote that rock climbing created a "stretched and anxious state of mind" but in that state, he found calm: "I know not how to proceed, how to return, but I am calm and fearless and confident." I didn't feel calm, fearless or confident during much of my walk today, but I would say that stretching myself beyond what I thought possible was absolutely exhilarating! I must agree with Coleridge, and many others who have written about such things: You feel most alive when at the edge of your abilities.
No lie: After the miracle of surviving Scafell Pike,
we saw this rainbow stretched over Buttermere.