James Forrest
How big is the difference between walking up mountains in summer and climbing them in winter? James Forrest heads high into Lakeland’s frozen Northern Fells to find the answer.
becomes a Polar explorer for the day by taking on a familiar Lakeland fell in unfamiliar winter conditions
“WE VEER RIGHT AND STRIKE UPHILL THROUGH ANKLE-HIGH SNOW, OVER THE PATHLESS LOWER REACHES OF THE EAST RIDGE”
Ifeel like an embattled polar explorer. A bitter, sub-zero wind is roaring, as I plod methodically across a bleak, frozen tundra. I’m exhausted. My fingers are numb and my body is shivering. The wind whips up a swirling blizzard of spindrift, spiralling me into a snow-blinded state of disorientation.
It’s as if there is nothing in this world but a ubiquitous whiteness: powdery white snow below my feet and a blinding white sky all around. I lean into the gales, like a rugby player bracing himself for a bone-crunching tackle, and press on. Am I going in the right direction? My entire body is cocooned in thick, warm layers, but my face is exposed in the narrow gap between my hat and neck warmer. I can taste the icy-fresh air on my lips and my cheeks feel anaesthetised. I strain my eyes and glimpse my destination. Have I made it? Is this grand expedition really coming to an end?
But I’m not actually an intrepid adventurer about to reach the North Pole. No Michelin Man-style down suit here; no 200kg sled to haul, and no icicles dangling off my worryingly un-rugged beard. The irony is that I’m only climbing a dinky 683m hill in the Lake District – and my goal is simply the summit of Bannerdale Crags, rather than the northernmost point of Earth in the far-flung Arctic. But, despite my more humble aspirations, I still experience an adrenaline-inducing sense of achievement that all explorers must share, whether you’re Ranulph Fiennes or just a hillbagging rambler. I touch the summit cairn triumphantly and smile broadly. It feels like I’ve taken on the brutal conditions of a Lakeland winter and won.
Rewind a few hours and we park up in Mungrisdale, an olde-worlde hamlet nestled quietly at the somewhat-forgotten eastern edges of the Blencathra massif. Our plan is an 8km horseshoe route, climbing the seldom-visited east ridge of Bannerdale Crags before descending The Tongue. “Have you got an ice axe?” asks photographer Tom, my companion (and soon to be personal mountain guide) for the day’s adventure. “Erm...no, is that a major problem?” I answer anxiously. In truth, I’m a lowly hillwalker with very rusty winter mountaineering skills. Last night’s unexpected big dump of snow has caught me off guard. “Don’t worry, you can use this one,” replies Tom, the cavernous boot of his car stocking a remarkable array of spare gear.
Suitably kitted out, we walk down a lane along a drystone wall and pass a red telephone box to reach a row of whitewashed cottages – it’s a taste of quintessential rural England in just 50m. We go through a wooden gate and pick up a rough track next to the River Glenderamackin. Directly ahead The Tongue rises prominently, like a snowy pyramid, its triangular whiteness pierced only by the grey-black of intermittent crags; and to our left lies Souther Fell, gentle and placid in profile, with smoother, grassier lines. And in-between the two is Bannerdale Crags, a mile-long escarpment of plunging cliffs broken only by the pronounced spur of the east ridge, our chosen route of ascent. Backed by blue skies, the snow-blanketed arête sparkles and dances in the morning sunlight. It looks poised and elegant – and positively alpine. I’m half-petrified, half-enthralled by what lies ahead.
At the foot of The Tongue, we fork left and follow the River Glenderamackin south-east. I can’t quite believe how dramatic Bannerdale Crags looks from here. Last time I climbed the fell, it was an instantly forgettable plod over grassy uplands, a functional add-on to an ascent of Blencathra. And, sadly, this is how most fellwalkers experience ‘Boring Bannerdale’. But, from this direction, the fell is utterly transformed. The caterpillar becomes a butterfly. As Alfred Wainwright explained in his Pictorial Guide to the Northern Fells, Bannerdale
Crags has ‘great scenic attraction’ from the east, its closeted, secret crags unveiled to those hardy walkers who venture here. ‘Few visitors to Lakeland will have seen the crags, which turn their back on the district and are quite concealed from all places and viewpoints of popular resort,’ he wrote. And, like Alfred, I feel privileged to be privy to this secret, special aspect of the mountain.
The snow deepens as we begin to climb. After crossing Bannerdale Beck, we veer right and strike uphill – now through ankle-high snow – over the pathless lower reaches of the east ridge. Initially the going is easy. Holding my ice axe in the walkers’ orientation, I dip it into the soft snow like a walking stick, more for the fun of it than stability. The sun warms my face. I can hear the rush of the river below us and the crunch of my boots on the virgin snow. A sudden breeze lifts tiny particles of snow off the ridge, showering the air in a mist of spindrift, like the spray blown off a cresting wave; while below my feet, I notice the marbled patterns of sastrugi, parallel wave-like ridges carved onto the snow by the prevailing wind. It is a beguiling, almost magical, landscape to be walking through.
But the sense of magic soon relents, replaced instead by the need for steely concentration. We reach the start of steeper, rockier terrain – and it’s clear the excitement, and seriousness, are about to escalate significantly. Ahead the ridge narrows, forming a knobbly, knurled, spine-like arête, coated in confidence-shattering snow. Easy