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With
nothing planned for the Christmas or the New Year, I sat at the usual
Boxing Day family get together watching relatives who I have not seen
from one year to the next gather for the obligated family festive
fodder. Stuffing volavonts and little sausages on sticks down their
throats I had enough so managed to sneak away unnoticed to Terry
Coulson’s, a fellow backpacker who only lived a couple of streets away
from my parents
"Merry Christmas" I said as Terry opened the door only to see that he
looked as sick as I was due to his festive fodder. "Do you fancy a
couple of days backpacking" I asked him. “Great” he replied not giving
it a second thought “However, I’m back at work on Tuesday” he replied.
“That’s ok” I said “a couple of days away will charge the batteries, see
you in the morning.”
Next morning we were off heading to the snow-laden village of
Braithwaite.Parking up at nine thirty we were off quickly up through the
snow-covered village heading up Coledale Beck. As we climbed higher up
the beck, the snow got deeper until we reached the old mine workings,
nestled just below the foot of Force Crag.
Climbing higher from the old mine workings crampons were needed as the
snow became a lot thicker as it lay on top of previous snow fall that
had hardened and frozen underneath.
As we climbed up through Pudding Beck visibility was now down to only a
couple of metres with every thing being a total white out. It was hard
to route find or judge distance and what I thought was to be flat ground
was actually a slope and managed to step of into thin air, rolling three
or four times down the slope before coming to an abrupt halt at the
bottom. As I lay their like a floundering turtle on its back I could
here the hearty laughter coming from Terry standing above me. As I stood
up I resembled frosty the snowman as I was covered from head to toe in
snow with snow penetrating every orifice on my body. As I dusted myself
down, we were of again through the deep snow, still heading for our
destination of Hopegill Head then onto Grasmoor our progress was very
cumbersome as we took turns between us to lead through the
sometimes-waste deep snow.
Climbing up the flanks of sand hill, we could hear voices getting louder
and louder until out of the snowy mire came two lone figures. We are
heading for Pudding Beck, the older man retorted only heading the wrong
way. Terry corrected him by pointing him in the right direction. Which
was the way we had just come from? If you follow our footprints it will
take you to the old mine workings, Terry told the pair. After thanking
us they were off again quickly disappearing into the snowy mist.
As the couple had just come down from Sand Hill, we both decided to
follow their footprints to the summit but as we climbed higher, the wind
and snow had whipped up and by now had covered the tracks that had been
made only minutes before.
On reaching the long arduous climb to the summit of Sand Hill we both
paused because of the deterioration of the weather and decided to head
back down as our original route seemed to be to ambitious in the
worsening conditions.
Heading back down seemed to be a lot quicker and easier as gravity
seemed to help us plough through the deep snow.
As we reached Pudding Beck, our nights pitch, the weather seemed to
brighten slightly with only a light snowfall. This didn’t last long and
as we were pitching the snow and wind had whipped up again forcing snowy
spindrift into our tents covering every thing.
As we bedded down for the night, the snow got heavier and heavier with
the tent ready to implode at the weight of the snow that had covered it.
After a night of clearing snow from the top of our tents, the weather
cleared and at about eleven o clock we were gifted with a bright glow
inside the tents as if a light had been switched on. Further inspection
revealed a clear star strewn night, with the moon as bright as I have
ever seen it, reflecting off the snow like thousands of tiny diamonds
shining in the moonlight.
As I lay their with my tent door open, marveling at the fantastic clear
moonlit views across to Skiddaw and Blencathra, I wondered about all of
those people who had paid hundreds of pounds to stop in fancy hotels and
guesthouses across the Lake District with not even a view that we had
here with my night costing me nothing.
It was twelve thirty before I managed to tear myself away from my
fixation and close the tent door as I lay their with a smug and
satisfied look on my face I managed to dose off for a calm and peaceful
night.
After the marvel of the night before I could not envisage the view that
greeted me as I pulled on my frozen boots and climbed out of my tent the
next morning. Clear blue skies were dotted with orange yellows and,
pinks, as the early sunrise radiated from behind the snow-covered top of
Blencathra .
On packing up we were off through the golden hue of sunrise picking our
way through the deeper snow that had fallen the night before as we
headed for the old mine workings and the dubious snow covered descent
down to the valley floor.
As we dropped down the valley, passing the old mine workings, we picked
up the old miners track that ran towards Braithwaite. Here snow had
became less thick now being replaced by compacted ice; and constant
streams of day walkers coming up the valley.
On reaching Braithwaite, the weather had worsened from the previous day
with heavy frost and ice covering everything, making our route out from
Braithwaite a little interesting. Thus ending another couple of
fantastic days backpacking.
REPORT & PHOTOS:
PAUL BUTCHER |
