Sharp Edge
The Lakes can’t match the Alps for sheer scale, but occasionally our comparatively diminutive fells serve up an offering with more than a hint of Alpine about it...
Under snow, this arête is arguably Alpine
There are places for which the adjective ‘Alpine’ is regularly used and perfectly apt: the Cuillin of Skye; the ridges of Torridon; high and narrow parts of north Wales; and, naturally, the Alps. But it’s not often applied to the Lake District. Perhaps we need to establish what we mean by ‘Alpine’. If used solely to describe mountainous landscapes whose upper reaches pierce the 4000m ceiling, then nothing on our elevationally mediocre islands is going to measure up. But if being ‘Alpine’ is a matter of attitude rather than altitude, the UK’s peaks have much to offer. Tower Ridge on Ben Nevis is a classic Alpine-style route. Cyfrwy Arête on Cadair Idris too. And in the Lakes, though it may lack the scale or rarefied air of an equivalent Alpine ridge, Blencathra’s Sharp Edge has every right to claim that distinction; and never more so than in winter.
Tom and I parked the car and began the familiar journey up onto Scales Fell in a far-from-familiar Lake District. Cumulative dumps of snow had transformed the Glenderamackin Valley. Powdered slopes flowed down to the verges of the tarmac ribbons threading the pristine whitescape. Beneath a bright sun unfettered by the usual accompaniment of cloud, it was a scene of Christmas card perfection. A hefty covering of snow is beautiful to regard. Its delicate muting of the landscape’s volume, blissful. Battling through it is significantly less serene. Scales Tarn and the start of Sharp Edge is, under more typical circumstances, an hour’s walk; 45 minutes if you’re moving fast and light. Packs weighed down by winter accoutrements no doubt reduced our speed, but it was wading through armpit-deep drifts and clambering over cascading banks of snow that doubled the journey time. A little over two hours after leaving the car, we slumped by the shore of Scales Tarn and eyed our objective.
A slope looks steepest when seen from straight on. This 90 degree view compresses perspective, lending an appearance of severity to even the most avuncular of gradients. Sharp Edge is no exception. Viewed from Scales Tarn it’s high, airy and offensively vertical: a curving wall of unforgiving steepness, Hoover-Dam-like in its stature. It could be Alpine or – doused in snow, spindrift
billowing from its cutting edge – even Himalayan in the wide eyes of the firsttime beholder. If its height is accentuated from below, Sharp Edge’s apparent steepness is far closer to the truth. From its knife blade arête – a crest of rock so sharp that it was previously known as Razor Edge – the plunge back into the bowl of Scales Tarn is every bit as abrupt and unremitting as it looks. What can’t be seen from below is that the drop on the far side of Sharp Edge is equally perilous. Nor for that matter is it clear just how narrow the strip of rock separating the two precipices is.
Dry bare rock is nearly always preferable on ridges. If it’s midwinter and that’s simply not an option, solid compacted snow that crampons can get a good bite
Viewed from Scales Tarn, Sharp Edge is high, airy and offensively vertical.
...we were met by a scene almost as Arctic as it was Alpine
of is the best alternative. Climbing above Brunt Knott onto the start of Sharp Edge, it was clear that we would get neither.
The ridge was buried by unconsolidated powder, deep enough to hide the details of the arête but not firm enough to offer much in the way of support. Feet prodded through the soft layer and skittered on unseen rocks, whose shape and reliability could only be guessed at through the minimal feedback crampon-strapped boots provide. Progress slowed to barely more than shuffling pace. Each delicate foot placement was preceded by a tentative poking from the shaft of an ice axe and followed by a held breath. There were pauses for reflection, though, and not just on the fragility of life and the selfish recklessness of the winter mountaineer. The National Park is hardly rationed in terms of stunning scenery, but a ‘bluebird day’ such as this is something else. Not taking a few moments to revel in it would have been a waste bordering on criminal.
Any traverse of Sharp Edge has to tackle the Bad Step. An outward-slanting slab of Skiddaw slate that’s almost frictionless in the wet, its tilt is perfectly angled to deposit slick-footed walkers into the rocky gully below. That Mountain Rescue refers to this landmark as ‘the usual gully’ tells you something. It’s an insidious obstacle. Visually it’s unthreatening and when bone-dry every bit as innocuous as it appears. But it only has to catch you
out once. Tom and I took exaggerated care. Sharp Edge is a long way shy of its kilometre-high cousins in Europe, but a slip from its crest has every chance of being fatal. The picks of our axes stabbed through into rock, hooking whatever they could find as we took slow, suspicious steps around the block that perches above the Bad Step and clambered down into the notch at the top of the Usual Gully. It was a straightforward manoeuvre in the end, but one for which the reassurance of a rope would not have felt excessive.
It’s easy to be lulled into premature relaxation at the end of the ridge. The sheer exposure may be done, but the scramble up the cracked slabs onto Atkinson Pike is far from straightforward. As on the ridge there was much stabbing of axes and scratching of crampons as Tom and I scraped and blustered our way onto Blencathra’s wide saddle back. Here we were met by a scene almost as Arctic as it was Alpine. Windswept spindrift sped across scoured ice. Harsh. Stinging. Relentless. Blencathra’s summit was crowned by a weather-sculpted slab of snow. The sun glowed low and warm on the high, cold plateau, and all around the Lake District slumbered under a thick white blanket. If being Alpine was a measurement of a landscape’s ability to evoke sensations of awe, this was it.
It isn’t, of course. It’s about terrain, conditions and the skills required to tackle them. For the true Alpine experience you need the Alps. But there’s no getting away from the fact that, for most of us, the Lake District provides a far more convenient and achievable destination in which to sate our mountain cravings. Although they may be more spread out than the peaks on the new-shape Toblerone, there are some prime slices of Alpine adventure to be found here. And when winter descends, Sharp Edge is among the best of them.