Helvellyn’s other edge
We take a route less walked and discover yet more magic on England’s favourite mountain
Are you sitting comfortably? Empty your mind of your ‘to do’ list just for a moment. And breathe. In for 4, 3, 2, 1, and out 1, 2, 3, 4. Now, think of Helvellyn.
It’s 2006 and I’m in the swirling mist. A black and white photo comes to mind at the same time as the memory. My hair is blowing horizontally in the wind. Stringy from the rain. I’m clinging on to a rock with my right hand and making my way through a gap in the angry-looking grey rock. You can’t see it in the photo, but there is nothing but thin air either side of me, shrouded by the clouds below my feet. Nor does the photo show my stomach flipping or my heart hammering like crazy under my fleece. I’m exhilarated though. The kind of exhilaration you want to be over and done with quite quickly before your heart gives up.
“THE PATH AHEAD OF ME BEARS A REMARKABLE RESEMBLANCE TO THE CRAYON SQUIGGLE OF A 3-YEAR-OLD”
My face is grinning, wide-eyed and slightly deranged. Raindrops (or are they beads of nervous sweat?) roll down my cheeks, but I don’t really notice them. My senses are chiselled and sharply focused on one thing only. Don’t. Fall. Down.
Even though I’ve never actually seen them, thanks to the thick fog that’s followed me up the mountain each time, Helvellyn’s Striding and Swirral Edges are engraved in my mind, deep and permanent in their awesomeness, quickening my breath slightly just with their memory.
I shift in the comfort of my seat, releasing the memories of the adrenaline-fuelled escapade, and shift my focus to 2019. The clouds are gone and summer sunshine warms me to the bones. I’m inhaling deeply. It feels good. I’m high on Helvellyn’s ridge, but not the one I’ve known and loved all these years. This time, it’s not a battle against weather and rock. The ridge is wide, and I am so tiny in the gigantic landscape. There’s a path snaking ahead of me that bears remarkable resemblance to the crayon squiggle of a 3-year-old, thick and pale through the green grass. There’s no mistaking the way it heads right across the top of the massif, along the crest of Helvellyn’s heavyweight of ridges.
I’m making my way from north to south, or from its head to foot, because the Helvellyn range is like the backbone of the Lake District, holding the whole gorgeous thing together. The craggy ribs of Striding Edge, Swirral Edge and others unnamed sprawl out from its broad back. It feels like the whole body of Lakeland is visible from up here. In every direction and for as far as you can see, fells line up and jostle for position, becoming hazy and blue in the distance. The moment is a happy, safe place. One to remember and return to for those moments of calm and perspective in the madness of the world below.
I’m on a one-way journey. The main climbing is done with a pleasant gill-side wriggle up onto the ridge at Sticks Pass from Thirlmere’s roadside bus stop. The going is easy. It’s airy up here. It’s the highest ground for miles around. The ground feels springy and is barrelling me along in an easy stride. The flanks of Raise, the first summit I cross on the ridge, are decorated with cotton grass and a cairn on top, but it’s the shoulder of Helvellyn rising imposingly ahead that demands all attention and gives a hint of the drama to come.
As I climb, I’m leaving behind the rolling hills and stepping into mountain territory proper. My path is easy going, but all around me the ground is shattering into a craggy abyss. I recognise Swirral Edge and Catstye Cam ahead to my left. I’m disorientated for a moment, trying to put the familiar territory from previous walks into the jigsaw. I’ve never seen it from this angle. In fact, this is the first time I’ve seen more than just a few metres ahead of me! Below, Red Tarn is cradled by the horseshoe of toothy edges. A line of people look like ants inching their way cautiously along Striding Edge. There’s a tingle in my belly. A pull. Part of me wants to leave the broad safe plateau and feel the thrill of the thin rocky crests below. But I look to the previously untrodden Nethermost Pike ahead and the monstrous views of St Sunday Crag, then turn my back on the bustle of Helvellyn’s summit.
There’s an exaggerated quiet around me now. I’m leaving behind all the other people. The ridges of Nethermost and Dollywaggon Pike echo the famous edges of Helvellyn, but these are empty and pathless. I’m thinking that they could be exciting adventures for another day. But for now, I’m just trying to breathe it all in. I love this place. The Lake District. The first time I ever visited, it felt like going home. This place has everything I crave when I’m back home in the flatlands. Its space, its beauty, the friendly ruggedness that is unique to the Lakeland fells. I’m trying to capture and hold onto that feeling for when I’m back to reality later.
From the brilliantly sounding Dollywaggon Pike (something to do with a combination of ‘Giant’ and ‘Lifted’ in Old Norse apparently) the descent begins. My legs are still feeling fresh despite having completed most of the 17km hike, with over 1000m of ascent. But with the sight of Grisedale Tarn and the growing warmth as we descend, my mind is leaping ahead to thoughts of a cream tea in Grasmere… or an ice cream even.
I’m losing height quickly now, and skirting the shores of the tarn. I’m nestled in a bowl between Dollywaggon, Fairfield and Seat Sandal. I’ve been here before too, on the Coast to Coast. It was horizontal rain that time. Today is definitely ice cream weather and the thought of
“I LOVE THIS PLACE. THE FIRST TIME I EVER VISITED IT FELT LIKE COMING HOME”
it is stopping me pausing to take my boots off and going for a paddle.
I feel my mind readjusting as we get lower and signs of civilisation return. There’s a busyness that is bringing back a trace of anxiety, which I’m thinking is something that I’ll just get used to again, rather than it go away completely. There’s also a sense of elation there too though. I’ve walked from the rolling hills of Helvellyn’s giant ridge, through the most spectacular mountain scenery and out the other side. A journey from Thirlmere to Grasmere, which I’ll link with the regular 555 bus service back to the start point.
I’m planting my backside on the cold metal of the seats outside Green’s café and wondering if I can manage a cream tea and an ice cream, when the real world starts to seep back in. In 4, 3, 2, 1… I blink in the ordinary surroundings of home, back in my comfy seat. It’s 2020 and that awe-inspiring route on Helvellyn slides quietly back into its place in the past, to call upon whenever I need to escape the realities of the present and go back to my happy place in the Lakes.