Our weekend in Buttermere had not got off to a flying start, but as always the Lesbians in Fleeces were not deterred. We had picked up a book in Keswick by a gent called Stuart Marshall. He wore a very fetching turtle neck on the back cover and suggested we could do all 214 Wainwrights in 36 walks. I felt he was my kinda guy. Having only managed one the day before and with the top of the mountains clearly visible from our camp we thought we'd give one a crack. Ever ambitious (some may argue over ambitious) we decided to take on Stu's 'Buttermere Marathon'. Named for it's strenuous nature and not it's 26 mile route. It was in fact 16 miles long and took in seven peaks, so we were hoping to match our current record.
We woke early to give ourselves the 8-10 hours of daylight needed to complete the marathon and headed off with a spring in our step. The route from Buttermere was straight forward, out towards the gushing sour milk ghyll, and following a clear path north west along the edge of Crummock Water. This was a path straight forward enough for rookie walkers or people out for a casual stroll. Clear to the eye and almost definitely clear under foot (on a dry day), but this was not a dry day and I got the impression there hadn't been a dry day in some time. Puddles and small streams littered the path.
We woke early to give ourselves the 8-10 hours of daylight needed to complete the marathon and headed off with a spring in our step. The route from Buttermere was straight forward, out towards the gushing sour milk ghyll, and following a clear path north west along the edge of Crummock Water. This was a path straight forward enough for rookie walkers or people out for a casual stroll. Clear to the eye and almost definitely clear under foot (on a dry day), but this was not a dry day and I got the impression there hadn't been a dry day in some time. Puddles and small streams littered the path.
Li's Toms up Snowdon
My new Merrals had been holding up well in the bad weather (They're vegan as well, don't let anyone tell you you can't get vegan boots that are waterproof, they're lying to you and they probably had to wear their leather boots in for several years before they stopped getting blisters walking to the shops). Liz, however, had been wearing some Tom boots, which were not specifically designed for walking but had served her very nicely for the last 10 months. They'd taken her up and down Snowdon and Scafell Pike and up at least 12 Wainwrights. But the parachute type material began to give up the ghost on one of the wettest walks so far. Maybe it was the fact the seams were beginning to fray or maybe it was the fact that they hadn't fully dried from the day before but water was getting in before we even though about heading up hill.
This led to some interesting new forms of athleticism to get us over the watery barriers that stood in our way. The long jump, used for streams crossing the path. The sprint, used to get us over bogs so fast our feet didn't sink in. The Jesus, walk so fast that you develop the ability to walk on water. Most of these failed and Liz's feet were soggy from almost the word go. And as any seasoned walker will tell you, even the most waterproof boots can't hold water out if it gets over the top. So I too was soggy footed!
This led to some interesting new forms of athleticism to get us over the watery barriers that stood in our way. The long jump, used for streams crossing the path. The sprint, used to get us over bogs so fast our feet didn't sink in. The Jesus, walk so fast that you develop the ability to walk on water. Most of these failed and Liz's feet were soggy from almost the word go. And as any seasoned walker will tell you, even the most waterproof boots can't hold water out if it gets over the top. So I too was soggy footed!
But we trucked on anyway. Our path was supposed to take us up to Scale Beck, at the foot of Scale Force (the highest waterfall in the Lake District). It was at these point Marshall's instructions got very vague. We tried to compare our map to his but it was really unclear. Were we supposed to cross the Beck? Were we supposed to hug the wall or head at a diagonal up the hill. After much debate and much map consulting we found the path we though was ours, and the compass seemed to agree that we were heading in the right direction. But as we headed up it became harder and harder to locate ourselves on the map. Marshall had nothing to say about this section of the walk and we felt like we were completely blind as to where to head. We were used to our favourite walking guides (Walk Lakes), with there detailed instructions and helpful descriptions but Marshall gave us few pointers or ways to locate ourselves within his guide.
When we arrived at a plateau which seemed to be indicated by Marshall we thought that maybe we were heading in the right direction. But to be sure we consulted Wainwright. Alf was ever flattering of his favourite fells. Great Bourne, the first of our marathon day, had little to recommend it and if he was going to recommend it, he definitely didn't recommend you took it on via Buttermere. The bogs of Mosedale made the route unpleasant at best. He thought the route so stupid an undertaking that he didn't even give any recommended paths. Cheers Alf, that was really helpful, you should have predicted the fact that in 60 years time two lesbians in fleeces, following the substandard guidebook of a man in a turtleneck might not bother reading you instructions until they got half way up the mountain. But Wainwright was thoughtless like that so instead we followed what we thought were Marshall's instructions and headed straight across Mosedale in search of a tarn that might mark we were heading in the right direction, towards a mountain we were 100% (well maybe 75%) certain was Great Bourne. By this stage, our boots were almost entirely submerged in bog and we may as well have been walking bare boot.
The walking was hard, each step felt like we were walking in treacle and the illusive tarn was not appearing. This was the point at which we decided we were flogging a death horse/a rubbish Wainwright and did an about turn to head back towards Red Pike to make the best of a bad job. If we could get to the top of Red Pike, Wainwright suggested this was a doable feat, we could get ourselves up on the Buttermere ridge and at least bag us a few fells.
When we arrived at a plateau which seemed to be indicated by Marshall we thought that maybe we were heading in the right direction. But to be sure we consulted Wainwright. Alf was ever flattering of his favourite fells. Great Bourne, the first of our marathon day, had little to recommend it and if he was going to recommend it, he definitely didn't recommend you took it on via Buttermere. The bogs of Mosedale made the route unpleasant at best. He thought the route so stupid an undertaking that he didn't even give any recommended paths. Cheers Alf, that was really helpful, you should have predicted the fact that in 60 years time two lesbians in fleeces, following the substandard guidebook of a man in a turtleneck might not bother reading you instructions until they got half way up the mountain. But Wainwright was thoughtless like that so instead we followed what we thought were Marshall's instructions and headed straight across Mosedale in search of a tarn that might mark we were heading in the right direction, towards a mountain we were 100% (well maybe 75%) certain was Great Bourne. By this stage, our boots were almost entirely submerged in bog and we may as well have been walking bare boot.
The walking was hard, each step felt like we were walking in treacle and the illusive tarn was not appearing. This was the point at which we decided we were flogging a death horse/a rubbish Wainwright and did an about turn to head back towards Red Pike to make the best of a bad job. If we could get to the top of Red Pike, Wainwright suggested this was a doable feat, we could get ourselves up on the Buttermere ridge and at least bag us a few fells.
Liz shamed for getting lost!
As we headed back through the bog we stumbled across another couple. The first people we'd seen all morning (most people had obviously decided that Great Bourne wasn't worth getting wet for). When questioned on the passability of the path from whence we had come, we slightly shame facedly explained that we had not walked the whole path and we were in fact lost. Like all those we have come across in the hills the couple were helpful and didn't once laugh at us. They named the mountains we could see and helped us locate ourselves on the map (they also had GPS which I think is a good thing for emergencies). The mountain we had be heading towards, which were were certain was Great Bourne, was in fact Hen Comb and the mountain we thought was Hen Comb was Mellbreak. Our excellent navigation skills won out again!
But the day was young and Red Pike's clear path (locatable on our map and in our Wainwright), ran clearly up the side of Scale Force. After only a few minutes back tracking we were on our way. Clearly located and back on track. The Scale force path soon branched off onto the moorland top of the Buttermere ridge which would take us up to the top of Red Pike. Despite not bagging one fell yet, it was lunch time, we'd been getting lost for approximately 4 hours. So we took a seat on some mossy tuffets (in a very similar way to little miss muffet). Liz had made some fajita type wraps, packed full of protein for our originally planned Marathon and we manger-ed on our new walking snack of choice- mini soreens! In our exposed position the wind was picking up and hats and gloves were the order of the day (it was bloody August). But the cloud was at bay and we had what looked like a clear run... until we finished our lunch...
But the day was young and Red Pike's clear path (locatable on our map and in our Wainwright), ran clearly up the side of Scale Force. After only a few minutes back tracking we were on our way. Clearly located and back on track. The Scale force path soon branched off onto the moorland top of the Buttermere ridge which would take us up to the top of Red Pike. Despite not bagging one fell yet, it was lunch time, we'd been getting lost for approximately 4 hours. So we took a seat on some mossy tuffets (in a very similar way to little miss muffet). Liz had made some fajita type wraps, packed full of protein for our originally planned Marathon and we manger-ed on our new walking snack of choice- mini soreens! In our exposed position the wind was picking up and hats and gloves were the order of the day (it was bloody August). But the cloud was at bay and we had what looked like a clear run... until we finished our lunch...
Spot the lesbian in a fleece
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As it did the day before, the fog came from nowhere. We could see the top of Red Pike and then we couldn't. We were pretty sure where we were on the map so we carried on. Over the rolling climb up to the summit. The ground was moor like with huge gashes of red rock like the mountain was bleeding. The distinctive red rock is what the mountain is named for and if we had any doubts to our whereabouts the flash of colour cleared things up.
One of our difficulties is we're struggling to know how long it takes us to walk certain distances on a map. With the fog closing in and no clear view of anything, let alone the summit, we believed were getting close to bagging our first summit of the day. As if Wainwright was looking down over us, a couple appeared out of the fog. Windswept but purposeful, they looked like they could help us out. 'Are we near the summit yet?' I bellowed over the howling wind. 'Yes. You're nearly there. Maybe another half an hour. And it gets a bit windy up there.' Nooooooooo. I was sure it was just round the corner. I was also sure it couldn't get any windier than this, I was struggling to keep my feet on terra firma and this was having a serious impact on my ability to be sure I was walking in a straight line. 'If you keep the edge in sight and carry on straight you'll get there.' They shouted into the wind as they disappeared back into the fog. So we aligned ourselves with the edge and put all our effort into aiming straight and keeping a good four or five metre away from it. Heads down we walked into the wind, which did indeed get stronger. We had to get low to the ground and occasional hide behind some rocks for respite. But after half an hour of battling we made it. The distinctive summit of Red Pike appeared out of the fog just as Wainwright had described it. A bright red cairn with old metal fence posts twisting out of it. One of the most distinctive cairns we'd seen gave us certainty Red Pike was bagged. |
We took a breather on some rocks just out of the wind to regroup. The rest of the Buttermere Marathon carried on south east along a ridge we couldn't see and our Wainwright had suggested this was not a ridge to do in fog if you'd never attempted it before. We were learning to trust Alf (apart from on one point he had claimed that the landscape of Red Pike held 'no secrets'. I beg to differ my friend. It help one massive secret... where the fuck it was!!). We decided we needed to get down from the tops find shelter from the wind and save these fells for a more settled day. But how to get down? We could come back the way we'd come, retracing our steps should be easy enough but the wind and fog made us nervous. Because of our previous plan to wild camp at Blea Tarn we knew there was a steep rocky path that descended from the top of Red Pike down to the tarn, then down sour milk ghyll back to the valley floor. This made me nervous though. With these conditions what if we took the wrong path and ended up completely lost. We at least new where we were for now. Liz decided to scout the path out, with our map and compass we had an idea of where it should be. Liz's bright yellow coat kept her in my line of sight as she went searching. The path was clear. There was no other choice and as soon as we joined the path and dropped off the summit the wind eased. The bright red path cut a clear line through the landscape and before long we began to walk below the fog line and Blea Tarn appeared below us. We were home free and I could breath again.
This path is a straight forward path up and down Red Pike or just to Blea Tarn from Buttermere if you fancy it and we saw people walking in trainers and jeans before we knew it. A rather hardier pair appeared from behind us, having a breather from their fell run of our originally planned walk over the Buttermere ridge we felt rather pathetic in our giving up but they were using GPS and thats got to lighten the navigational burden, if not the physical one.
The pitched path we took down to the valley floor was slippery as hell given the weekends wet weather and I am about a sure footed as a new born deer (think Bambi only less adorable). I couldn't imagine how people were running this path as every new step left me feeling I was going to fall on my arse. Which I did, several times. Every now and again Liz would turn round when she heard a little yelp to see me sat on the floor, looking cool! The final fall left me with a massive arse bruise and a bright purple finger I was 80% sure was broken, this was just what I needed as I was going to start a new job the following day. Luckily, the job was in an orthopaedic hospital and I got it checked by the docs on my first day, not broken! But it bloody hurt for the next two weeks.
Aching and cold the pub was calling. So we popped into the Fish Inn, where a very helpful barman lent me some scissors so I could strap up my finger and Liz found us a copy of the local mountain rescue's yearly report on all the people who they'd needed to rescue that year. We perused it with a pint and felt ourselves lucky. We seemed to have followed there advice. We had the right equipment for if things had got edgy and we'd altered our plans for the weather. Reading the report did make us realise how dangerous it can be. The fog can appear out of nowhere, even on a brighter day and you have to have emergency kit and a working mobile phone for if all else fails.
Quick side not- the other pub in Buttermere, The Bridge Hotel, sells bar meals and we bought a bowl of chips. They were almost certainly not Veggie, we just assumed there would be. If you're looking for Veggie food give the Bridge a miss and head to the Fish Inn.
The pitched path we took down to the valley floor was slippery as hell given the weekends wet weather and I am about a sure footed as a new born deer (think Bambi only less adorable). I couldn't imagine how people were running this path as every new step left me feeling I was going to fall on my arse. Which I did, several times. Every now and again Liz would turn round when she heard a little yelp to see me sat on the floor, looking cool! The final fall left me with a massive arse bruise and a bright purple finger I was 80% sure was broken, this was just what I needed as I was going to start a new job the following day. Luckily, the job was in an orthopaedic hospital and I got it checked by the docs on my first day, not broken! But it bloody hurt for the next two weeks.
Aching and cold the pub was calling. So we popped into the Fish Inn, where a very helpful barman lent me some scissors so I could strap up my finger and Liz found us a copy of the local mountain rescue's yearly report on all the people who they'd needed to rescue that year. We perused it with a pint and felt ourselves lucky. We seemed to have followed there advice. We had the right equipment for if things had got edgy and we'd altered our plans for the weather. Reading the report did make us realise how dangerous it can be. The fog can appear out of nowhere, even on a brighter day and you have to have emergency kit and a working mobile phone for if all else fails.
Quick side not- the other pub in Buttermere, The Bridge Hotel, sells bar meals and we bought a bowl of chips. They were almost certainly not Veggie, we just assumed there would be. If you're looking for Veggie food give the Bridge a miss and head to the Fish Inn.
Lessons Learnt!
- Be safe. Take emergency kit, keep a phone charged and if it all looks like it's going to go to shit turn back.
- Fog is a swift beast.
- A GPS might be a good idea.
- Listen to Wainwright.
- Not all walking guides are equal.
- Try not to break your finger before starting a new job.
- Not all chips are veggie.