Great Gable
When a mountain is as great as Gable, what more of an excuse do you need to climb it? Oh, yes: winter.
Does this Lakeland fell merit that adjective?
I’m going to let you in on a bit of insider knowledge. When articles like this are written it’s preferable that they have some kind of ‘hook’. There’s a whole bunch of hills out there, and it’s helpful to justify why we’re telling you about mountain A rather than peak B. This is no great secret; in fact it’s a fairly typical element of magazine writing. I’ll tell you what is a secret, though: up until recently, I’d never been up Great Gable. Yeah, I know. It’s one of the elite Lakeland fells, which any hillwalker worth their salt absolutely positively HAS to have climbed. And I hadn’t. So, with a day of on-and-off weather free in the Lake District and with no other objective leaping out to sell itself, putting that embarrassing omission right became the ‘hook’.
Seathwaite was dull and grey. While the summits were buried in snow, the lower slopes were bare and damp. The slippery cobbles alongside Styhead Gill were not the terrain stiff winter boots were created for. They felt clumsy and unwieldy on the man-made steps. Seen from afar, the snowline on a distant mountain looks precise and immediate. On the ground, it’s a far vaguer affair. A light dusting indicated the start of it. With height this icing sugar sprinkle became denser until the terrain morphed from exposed ground with patches of snow, to snow with patches of exposed ground, to a thick covering of show with just rocks and a few lengthier stalks of vegetation poking through. And at this point, paths become irrelevant. It’s a liberating experience. Most of us are so used to following the dashed lines on OS maps – be they robustly constructed purpose-built trails or boot-worn tracks in the earth – that it’s difficult to force ourselves to ignore them; we’re seemingly pre-programmed to plug in and follow. But if you can’t see them…
Great Gable has a neighbour. Actually, sibling would be a better term. Green Gable nestles against its bigger brother’s flank, sharing the family name but shorter in stature by nearly one hundred metres. Deep snow clung to its eastern ridge. Long grass stems punctuated the otherwise flawless surface, creating small hollows in the snow as they protruded. A ramp of ice-rimed rock broke from the snow: a natural line for crampons and axes to follow to the summit that bypassed and ignored the Aaron Slack path somewhere down to the left. On the summit of Green Gable a line of small cairns led the way to a single metal boundary post marking the fell’s highest point. The former were all but completely smothered in white, but the latter was more unusually decorated. Rime ice had accumulated on the windward side of the pole, creating a frozen ‘flag’ the full length of the post and almost a foot thick. With the top of the peak cocooned in bright clag, it was the only thing of any interest to catch the eye in an almost entirely off-white panorama. This is the Lakes, though, where views can change within moments. Accompanied by a few short, urgent gusts, the mist thinned and then parted. A window opened, a window into the world beyond the cloud and below the snow. A green, tree-dense valley. A wild valley. No roads. No buildings, except for one small hut (see p129). Ennerdale. Beautiful, beautiful Ennerdale. And then it went. The window closed. The opaqueness returned.
Throughout the brief improvement in scenic circumstances, Great Gable had remained resolutely hidden, stubbornly refusing to shake the gloom from its own head. And gloom it was, for where the parting mists had been bright and thin, Great Gable wore a balaclava of dense grey. By contrast the virgin drifts gathered in Windy Gap – the col between Gables – were of purest eyedazzling white. Deep. Soft. Fresh. The urge to dive headlong into the beckoning powder waves was almost too much, but they were left unspoiled. We may have
followed the path to the top of Great Gable. Or we might not have set foot on it. There was no way to know. This flank of the mountain was all rock and snow and, although traversing the slope was easier going, to reach the summit you’re obliged to go up. The light had darkened, the temperature dropped. Kick, scrape, swing, pull; we climbed out of the white and into the grey. As I arrived for the first time ever on the top of Great Gable, snow began to fall: gentle, floating lumps. A memorial plaque is set into the summit rocks, commemorating members of the Fell & Rock Climbing Club who were killed during World War One. Brushing the ice away from the bronze to read the names, the air calmed and everything became still. But it didn’t last. The wind picked up and the delicate sprinkling of snow became a whirl of blizzard. The views from Great Gable are legendary, but we wouldn’t get them. It was hard to imagine anything but white in the world. We turned our backs on the summit and began the descent to a place of colour and warmth.
This is the point where the article you’re reading should be neatly wrapped up with a poignant message. But there was no moment of epiphany, no hard-fought battle for survival. What there was, though, were several lessons learned.
1. It may be the little brother, but Green Gable is a fantastic hill that offers perhaps the best view down Ennerdale you’ll get from anywhere.
2. Ignoring paths, through choice or necessity, is a lot of fun. They should be ignored more often.
3. You don’t need a reason to climb a mountain, other than the mountain itself.
This final point is, perhaps, a poignant message of sorts. You see, it doesn’t matter that I have no great views from Great Gable to dwell on, or an epic lifeor-death struggle on which to reflect. I have climbed that mountain. From the bottom, to the top, and
back again. And with a fell as distinguished as Great Gable, that’s all the reason anyone needs – simply to be able to say “I have climbed it”. That being said, there are also plenty of other reasons to climb Great Gable. It sits at the hub of a wheel whose spokes include the Ennerdale, Wasdale and Borrowdale valleys. The highest peak and the deepest lake in England are both within striking distance of its feet, and its crags are credited with nothing less than being the birthplace of British rock-climbing. It is an icon – quite literally – appearing as the centre peak in the Lake District National Park’s logo. It’s also the place from which to enjoy what is touted as being the best view in Lakeland, although the exact vista from Westmorland Cairn is somewhat weather-dependent. So, no, you don’t require a convoluted incentive to climb Great Gable – having climbed it is reward enough. But, truth be told, the hunt for great views may well be the motivation for a second ascent…