WE STRIKE AT DAWN
WHILE MOST SENSIBLE HUMAN BEINGS WERE STILL SLUMBERING COSILY, OUR MISSION WAS TO SUMMIT HELVELLYN – BUT IT DIDN’T QUITE WORK OUT THAT WAY
The plan was simple – to set off while most sensible human beings were still slumbering, summit a snow-covered Helvellyn, bask in a golden winter sunrise and return in time for brekkie. It didn’t quite work out that way...
Our plan was as beautifully simple as it promised to be simply beautiful. Get up stupidly early and ride to the top of the formidable Lake District peak, Helvellyn, in time to bask in a glorious winter sunrise. We’d witness a new day break and wash the mountains with a flood of gold, maybe even catch a glimpse of a cloud inversion over Ullswater while we were at it. And finally, hoof it down the fabled Sticks Pass, carving glorious turns in crisp, white snow to be back home in time for a hot breakfast. Bish bash bosh, what could possibly go wrong?
Snooze you lose
“James, wake up! It’s quarter-past six, you shouldn’t be here!” This isn’t good – I’ve slept through my alarm. A vague recollection of silencing it at 4.30am forms in my semi-conscious mind, and I haul myself out of bed while my amazing wife gives up on trying to get back to sleep and makes me a much-needed brew. Fortunately, my kit is all ready. I just need to load my bike in the car and get my sorry arse to Glenridding – even though all hopes of being on the summit of Helvellyn in time for sunrise are dashed.
You see, a successful dawn raid requires meticulous planning and a healthy dose of good fortune. Pick a vantage point to watch the sunrise from (preferably one you know well), then work out how long it’ll take you to pedal there. Add in a measure of driving time, a pinch of inevitable faff to taste, and set your alarm accordingly.
In the height of summer, you may as well write off anything more than the merest hint of sleep, and you start to understand why people bivvy-camp on mountain peaks to get their fix. However, in the depths of winter, you can still enjoy a few hours of kip… and more so if you snooze through your alarm.
A quick phone call to my poor companions compounds my misery. Pat, who has a self-proclaimed reputation for tardiness, is uncharacteristically early. I didn’t even bother checking in with Steve. He’s never late, and today is no exception. Over an hour later than planned, I pull into the layby, apologising profusely. Pat and Steve are in a surprisingly good mood. They’ve been sitting in their vans for so long that Steve’s water bottle now resembles a Slush Puppie, and it’s long been clear to them that we won’t make it to the summit in time. The inky black of the night sky is fading and being replaced by a paler shade of blue, while the fells around us are starting to loom into view in the pre-dawn light.
Straight from the get-go our tyres are crunching through snow and ice, as we set an unsustainably high pace in an attempt to get some warmth back into our tired bodies. By the time we hit the youth hostel and the start of the climb proper, the buzz of caffeine and adrenaline is long gone, and I’m running on a heady combination of four hours’ sleep and not a lot else. The snow isn’t helping matters either, as you’d have guessed. Honestly, on a normal day I can pedal much, much further towards Keppel Cove, but today I’m dismounted and walking almost straight away.
Pat and Steve put on a valiant show for a while, but soon even their tyres give up traction and they join me on the long, slow push to the peak. Passing by an early morning skier, one might think it sensible to turn back and trade our wheels for something more appropriate, but we’re here now, so we press on.
The delights of dawn
As a photographer, the joys of a dawn raid are visceral. The light is quite simply out of this world. Honestly, there’s nothing more satisfying than watching the predawn sky brighten and run the full gamut of colours, from deep blues through purples, reds and pinks before exploding in the orange glow of a freshly squeezed sunrise. The sun appears as a tiny sparkle on the horizon and rapidly climbs to flood your surroundings with warmth and colour. Mountain peaks take on a new dimension, and you can revel in the joy of knowing that 99 per cent of the population are tucked up in bed or peering blearily into mugs of coffee. I seriously wish I was a morning person, just so I could experience more of them, because a successful dawn raid simply cannot be beaten.
Sadly, today is not that day. Don’t get me wrong, the sky is the most incredible deep blue as we continue our climb up Keppel Cove, but we’re still deep in the bowels of the valley and Catstye Cam makes for an impenetrable curtain in front of the main show. Instead, we watch the clouds roll in and consume the mighty Swirral Edge. From our vantage point, still bathed in the early morning sun, it’s painful to call it and say we won’t be summiting
today, but as we inch closer to the ridge the decision is obvious. To our left is the arduous climb to Lower Man and Helvellyn, their summits swathed in cloud and accompanied by the full force of a howling wind that brings with it spindrift blasting every exposed inch of exposed skin. I glance enviously across at Pat’s goggles and kick myself for not bringing any as we begrudgingly turn right and push through the snow towards Raise.
Wrong snow
The first time I rode from Raise to Sticks Pass it was a bluebird day. The snow was deep and completely obscured the path, yet was crisp, supportive and perfect for riding on. As a result, we were able to take a bold straight line, directly to the crossroads. Today, however, there’s the wrong type of snow on the summit. There isn’t quite enough to fill in all the holes – just enough to make following the path difficult. Not to mention the snow is powdery-soft so maintaining momentum is a major issue. With a bit more speed and a slightly crunchier surface, we’d be able to surf on top of the icy crust, but any time our speed drops this morning, our front wheels inevitably stop dead, leading to numerous hilarious bails. No one is immune and the landings are soft, which gives us free rein to laugh mercilessly at our companions’ misfortunes.
Reaching the top of Sticks Pass, we naively hope that things will improve, but our wishes are short-lived. There’s a reason why the Lake District ski club chose this area to build their ski tow in. In the depths of winter it doesn’t see a great deal of sunshine, and snow blows into the basin from all directions.
Attempting to descend, we pass, or should I say are passed by, an increasing number of skiers, who are all way more suitably equipped for the conditions than us. And I’m not for one second suggesting that we’ve skimped on layers or anything like that, I mean they’re on skis or are carrying snowboards. You know, the sort of sports equipment you might expect to take with you when heading up mountains that are covered in soft, pillowy snow. Not bikes.
Hobson’s choice
Somewhat ironically, when the snow thins out enough to be ridable, the rocks are now covered in layers of ice. Do we aim for the big, lumpy, wheel-eating boulders poking out or the slick patches where grip is non-existent? It’s quite the dilemma. The trick when riding on ice is to remember you are nothing more than a passenger. You have less than zero input over where the bike goes, and all you can do is keep your body as loose as possible and don’t even think about touching your brakes. One dab of them and you’re on your arse before your frozen brain has even registered what’s going on. We manage to get down, though, sliding our way around corners. Somehow Pat launches himself off the tiniest feature in the landscape. It’s all Steve and I can do to keep our bikes upright, and here he is showing off. Bastard.
And that’s it. Just as the trail becomes ridable, it’s over, and we’re back at the youth hostel with nothing but a straightforward cruise back to Glenridding and the warmth of our cars. We haven’t even got a cooked breakfast to look forward to, because everywhere’s closed. Don’t get me wrong – it’s been an absolute hoot. But I’m left lamenting how things could have been so much better. On the flipside, the hills will still be there when the snow has gone… I just need to make sure I set two alarms next time.