“The crux of Pen-y-ghent’s rugged ascent required the use of hands and ice axe if I had any desire to remain attached to the side of the mountain...”
The Yorkshire Three Peaks: a trio of iconic summits within a sea of ragged moorland. It’s completed by thousands in summer, but how hard is this famous challenge when dictated by winter rules?
Wolf on the loose after 100mph winds rip down zoo fence. Driver cheats death after fallen tree lands on car. Storm batters Britain leaving thousands without power... These were the headlines that blared out of the radio on the day I took on the Yorkshire Three Peaks.
This hillwalking challenge, maybe the second most popular in the UK behind the National Three Peaks, takes in the summits of Pen-y-ghent, Whernside and Ingleborough (typically in that order) in the Yorkshire Dales. The 24-mile circular route involves 1500m of ascent over the Pennine range and is designed to be slogged out in under 12 hours. In summer it is an exhausting but perfectly feasible enterprise and one that attracts thousands every year. In winter, however, the endeavour is transformed into a different beast entirely. It turns into a mountain expedition.
Given the diminished daylight hours, the snow-glazed terrain and the abominable forecast, myself and photographer Tom decided to split this famous walk over two days. We knew it would be tough but the idea was this would make for an exciting adventure rather than a busting-of-the-gut race against the clock. What’s the virtue of a walk on fast forward anyway?
PEN-Y-GHENT
Crunch. Swoosh. Thwack. Heavy boots munched into névé. The effort of heaving them from deep snow-prints was felt instantly via two burning thighs. A thick and fresh blanketing of snow obscured yesterday’s tyre tracks as we set off along the road from our B&B near Horton in Ribblesdale. It was 8.30am and the morning cold bit at my face. My weather app warned temperatures would fail to climb above 0°C all day. But, with risks of 100mph winds forecast on the summits, it was the wind chill factor I feared to be our greater foe.
Our ascent towards Pen-y-ghent’s south face meandered through several fields after we passed Brackenbottom Farm. Elevation was gained gradually, allowing us to ease into a rhythm. With our night’s accommodation booked in Ingleton we had the best part of a 20-mile tramp ahead of us and it was important to set a good pace early.
The ship-like south buttress of Pen-yghent soon rose into view, docked like an ocean liner on the surface of the horizon. Under a grey, clouded sky that was sullen and ominous, this isolated peak could hardly look more dramatic. The path approaching it snaked upwards via a sea of frosted moorland, punctuated with giant boulders of limestone.
Upon reaching the crest of the hill we suddenly became exposed to a barrage of violent gusts that had been hidden by the ridge up to now. My head got knocked back, as though I had risen above a parapet and been met by a volley of gale-force uppercuts. Leaning forward, head down and bent double was the best chance to make progress. We muscled open a wooden gate the wind had wrestled to keep shut and emerged onto the Pennine Way. The 694m summit of Pen-y-ghent was just a stone’s lob away. In the short distance before it, however, stood a steep stairway of iced craggy steps and a melee of angry weather.
Squalls of driving hail proved such a hindrance that mobility became torturous. A battle with the elements commenced and made our ascent into a game of cat and mouse between weather and climber. During bouts of intense buffeting the only option was to stay rooted to the spot. Then, when the blizzard briefly yielded to prepare a fresh bombardment, there was a short window in which to make a few upward steps. Move, pause, brace. Move, pause, brace. The drawn-out skirmish was a steely war of attrition. The crux of this rugged ascent required the use of hands and ice axe if I had any desire to remain attached to the side of the mountain. Eventually I hauled myself to the top and, sapped of energy, collapsed in triumph onto the summit cairn. One down. Two to go.
“THE crux of THis ruGGEd ascENT rEquirEd THE usE of HaNds aNd icE axE”
WHERNSIDE
Wind chill on the peak was a painful -15°C, so I was in no mood to stay for long. We found our way off Pen-y-ghent’s north-west shelf, rejoined the Pennine Way and began to descend into the relative calm of the valley. Target number two, the summit of Whernside, lay eight gruelling miles away – and that’s as the crow flies. The reality is an arduous 11-mile trek across a vast plain of rough moorland. It’s this distance, and indeed the mileage between all three mountains, that makes this Yorkshire peak-bagging quest so challenging. And even more so in winter, with the Dales wearing a cloak of snow and ice.
It was around midday when we stopped for lunch near Birkwith Moor. Cowered behind a drystone wall for wind shelter, the stove was fired up to cook a well-earned pouch of boiled rice. By this time the broad outline of the 736m-high Whernside had become apparent in the distance. Over the next few hours the walking progressed at a plod and Whernside didn’t seem to be getting any closer, like a mirage in a desert of snow.
With Yorkshire’s highest mountain fixed in our sights it did give us a good chance to size up the task ahead and plot our eventual ascent route. The traditional way is a lengthy climb up its north ridge. Less favourable is the ‘racing route’, a direct and punishing assault straight up Whernside’s central face. “In these conditions that’s not going to be friendly,” Tom remarked. “It’s a last resort.” I checked the map and glanced at my watch. From Whernside’s summit we would still have a seven-mile trek to Ingleton and only about two hours of daylight remained. “Do you think we have time for the usual route though?” Tom looked up at Whernside with pursed lips. “Let’s make a call once we reach the Ribblehead viaduct.” We plodded on.
After what seemed like an age we finally reached the viaduct. This venerable structure, with 24 symmetrical stone arches and Whernside as a backdrop, deserves to be marvelled at. But Tom and I were in no mind to be awed; it was decision time. We debated our options at length. But, with evervanishing light, over 12 miles already in our legs and a long way yet to go, there was only one realistic choice. We agreed the labour-heavy shortcut was our best chance to make it two peaks out of two and still reach our B&B before midnight.
We set out from near Winterscales Farm but the initial section of the day’s second ascent was far from easy-going. The steep terrain was unforgiving and comprised of bogs, thick clusters of moor grass and ankle-deep snow.
We ploughed on determinedly, but my body was soon overcome with fatigue. I realised our exertion would be in vain. We were not going to make it. I turned to Tom who was already looking at me. “I think it’s beaten us.” I dropped my head and shut my eyes but attempting to hide my disappointment was futile. Being an ultra-competitive soul who would hate to lose a game of tiddlywinks, I resented the notion of quitting on Whernside. But ultimately, sound judgment in the mountains isn’t a case of winning or losing – it can be the difference between your safety and becoming a mountain rescue statistic. And at heart, despite some lingering dejection, I knew we were making the right call.
The majority of our journey to Ingleton was completed in darkness under a starry sky, which did allow for useful night navigation practice across the boulder fields of Scales Moor. By the time we arrived at our B&B it was 8pm and, after almost falling asleep on my dinner plate, my shattered legs had seldom appreciated a night of rest more.
“The Table Top of Ingleborough Is a dIsorIenTaTIng place In a whITeouT”
INGLEBOROUGH
Our first port of call the next morning was a convenience store to buy lunch. As we adjusted our packs outside the shop, an elderly lady who spied us in walking gear approached. “You must be crazy if you’re going up them hills today,” she said. She was probably not far from the truth. The temperature was still camped below freezing and light snow was falling. We bade the villager farewell and she wished us good luck – we might just need it.
Conditions worsened as we coursed towards the distinctive shape of our third and final peak. Ingleborough’s broad flat cap, like a Venezuelan tepui, was indiscernible through the snow as we approached its western flanks via Crina Bottom Farm and a valley of limestone outcrops clad in dramatic white. As our path started to climb height was gained efficiently and we seemed to land on the 723m plateaued top in no time at all. Except we hadn’t. When viewed from OS Maps’ satellite mode, you’ll see Ingleborough’s western face is cut with two obvious shelves, or false summits, giving the hill a likeness to a terraced rice paddy from Asia. We paused to layer up on the lower of these ledges as gentle snowfall turned to blizzard and ice began to accumulate on our sides exposed to the wind. We rallied our dregs of energy that remained in the tank and set off for the final push.
The table top of Ingleborough is a disorientating place in a whiteout. What should resemble a large Iron Age fortification with terrific views spanning the Dales had been reduced to a vista of dense clag. The hilltop trig pillar only revealed itself when it got to within a few metres. Nonetheless, we had made it. Thank goodness. And any enduring bitterness over yesterday’s setback was now ousted by the relief of completing this final peak.
After a cautious descent off the mountain’s icy eastern ridge, the home stretch of our Yorkshire winter mission – a five-mile leg to Horton in Ribblesdale – seemed to pass by on autopilot. The moorland was no less taxing than the 20 miles that had gone before, but my wearied legs felt re-energised by the sniff of the finish line. A day-and-a-half’s trek, walking the length of a marathon, was nearing an end.
To have put so much into this challenge and come up one peak short was naturally gutting, but we knew it would be tough and we’d given our all. There was a reason we hadn’t passed a single other walker since starting out. The Yorkshire Three
Peaks is a demanding endeavour, physically and mentally, in the best conditions.
It’s an exercise that is underestimated at your woe.
But in the grip of winter there is little doubt it is a challenge transformed.
Oh, and Whernside:
I’ll be back for you.