Lake District Top to Bottom 4 May 2013

A straight line route on Easting 270 from Caldbeck Common to Gawthorpe, 40 miles, 14,000 feet, 14 hours 50 minutes

Since completing the crossing of the Lake District National Park from East to West on a straight line, I'd contemplated a North-South trip.  This line is almost the same distance but much less challenging as it goes with the grain of the land rather than against it and the terrain is more accomodating.  Nevertheless, it's still quite tough with the same logistical challenges.

The Lakeland Cross

I set off at 5am having got up at 3am, leaving the forlorn looking car beside the lonely road that crosses Caldbeck Common.  I walked across the tussocks to the park boundary and followed the compass in the dim light of pre-dawn.  I almost immediately went wrong and had to backtrack, before following the compass South, South, South.  this sounds simple but in practice its not.  Sticking to the bearing just lands you in bog, tussocks, knee deep heather and worse, so I sought out what looked like the most amenable line within 200m either side of Easting 270.  The rule is simple - keep as close to the line as possible, but make exception when crossing privately owned land where footpaths should be followed.  I also declined to cross and re-cross the full-looking river in Langstrath when an extra 100m detour allowed me to use the bridge.

At 6:30 am it rained - hard - and I wondered why on earth I had yanked myself out of bed at 3am to slant across dreary slopes at this hour of the day.  The 'waterproof' map got soggy, I got soggy and it was all rather dispiriting.  Fortunately the rain stopped, the mist lifted temporarily, and with it my spirits.  I found a decent line across the lonely fells at the back of Skiddaw and arrived in Keswick for a breakfast of bar and juice on a park bench beside the river.  Four miles of pleasant roadside path led to the Watendlath valley, and I followed the permissive path straight to the cafe instead of sticking to my line as I was STARVING.  Visions of a fried egg sandwich had me salivating, but instead chains around the doors indicating that the cafe was well and truly shut.  Further investigation revealed that they were just gearing up for the day and on enquiry I got a welcome cheese and tomato sandwich.  It filled a hole, but not what I had been dreaming of and hardly worth the detour.  From there I managed to find tracks all the way to Langstrath where the real test began.  A traverse up past Blea Rock took me to Martcrag Moor where my route took an improbable line across scree and grass to the valley floor.  One of the delights of a straight line is that it takes you to corners new.  This day it was a low level crossing of The Band, an energy sapping frontal assault on Pike O Blisco and a marginally less muscle busting ascent of Great Carrs.  I enjoyed the exploratory feel of the dripping black crags below Blisco and the unfamiliarity of the terrain that is alas, all too rare nowadays for me.

The day was now fine with clear views all around, but a strong wind touched gale force on the tops.  I sheltered from this under Great Carrs and had a late lunch.  From there to Goats Water I was repelled by a strong headwind, so was glad to drop off the tops, down to the hordes on the Walna Scar track.  these were soon left for the peace of the Blawith fells, a wonderful peaceful sanctuary.  With the bracken well down, the terrain proved surprisingly amenable and I really enjoyed the serenity of this Lake District outlier.  The final gentle hills were an easy end to the day.  Or rather to the end of the route, because I still had to get home.  the only bus left from Havethwaite at 9 and 10.30pm and I soon discovered that I'd forgotten the map to find my way there.  That meant having to take the main road back - a busy A road in failing light.  I tiried hitching to no avail so reconciled myself to the 7.5 mile slow jog to Havethwaite.  The Barrow road was most unpleasant if not dangerous with no footway for much of it and the light was really fading, but I had no choice.  Agonisingly I saw the first bus go past but I knew it wouldn't stop.  By way of compensation the pint and a half at the pub went down very nicely.  I finally made it back to Kendal at 11.10 where I fortified myself with a bag of chips for the 5 mile walk back home.  At 12.40 am I was home and in bed for 1am - a long but satisfying day.

Winter Broxap Round 24-26 February 2013

A non-stop walk round the 29 Munros of Jon Broxap's 24 hour Munro Record Route, 75 miles, 34,800 feet, 61 hours

A pretty demanding outing completed solo and unsupported apart from dropping one bag of food in Glen Shiel.  I'd decided from the outset that I was going to take my large and heavy SLR and spare lens so it was always going to be a plod round, but the 48 hours became 61 largely due to sleep deprivation.  This notwithstanding, it was a magnificent and memorable journey and just to complete such a mammoth outing in the depths of winter was highly satisfying.

Account
Route
Photos

Fisherfield Round 8-9 June 2012

A 24 Hour Version of my 2011 Round, 59.8 miles, 25,500 feet, 23 hours 50 mins


Despite having completing my Fisherfield round twice in 31 hours, I really wanted to complete this fine round in 24.  I'd worked out that I was unlikely to complete the full 2011 round in 24 hours, and in any case, there was too many out-and-backs for my liking.  After mulling the possibilities over for a while, I decided upon a logical line that omitted the long detour out to the eastern Fannaichs and also the rather pointless ascent of Meall a Chrasgaidh.  In addition, I replaced the rather tedious valley section from Loch a Bhroin to Fisherfield with a continuation of the ridge line to Mullach Coire Mhic Fhearchair.  If there was time I could add in the splendid Corbetts of Beinn Dearg Mhor and Bheag.

The cloud that hampered the night section (Photo - Ian Charters)

So its was that I found myself at Dundonell on an overcast but decent enough evening, this time with the welcome road support of Ian and Pauline Charters.  Having brought the attempt forward due to deteriorating weather I set off at 10:17pm. The linking section to Inverlael is one of the delights of the round - a gently rising path that crosses the divide between An Teallach and Beinn Dearg, with stupendous views of An Teallach giving way to a rich tapestry of sea loch, forest and mountain fastnesses.  In the gathering gloom I just about made it to the road without the aid of a torch, skidding down the steep final slope in my ancient trail shoes.  Just after midnight I arrived the first rendezvous at Inverlael, but the only car was not Ian's.  What to do?  I had nothing but a bumbag - no food, no water, no coat and no map.  In the abscence of any other plan, I nibbled on a bar and flashed my torch pathetically, calling out for Ian.  With no response, I walked slowly to the end of the car park.  Relief!  There lay Ian's car and after hammering on the window, out came Ian.  A quick feed and restocking and then onward up the long forestry track toward Beinn Dearg.  As I rose out of the forest a light drizzle fell which turned into a grey blanket of thick mist on the summit ridge, the tinder dry slopes having been replaced by slippy grass and greasy boulders.  I hadn't checked my torch batteries and the light was somewhat feeble in the misty darkness.  Going up was okay, if a little slow, but coming down demanded attention to the feet and the map and compass, making for a frustratingly painstaking descent of Eilidh nan Clach Geala.  The trail shoes were not up the job and I found myself slipping repeatedly despite the slow pace.  I knew that this section would be demanding in the dark and it didn't disappoint.  On the map the slope up to Ceann Garbh looks innocuous enough, but in reality it is a complex juxtaposition of small crags, boulders and tussocky grass. I held a constant line by my compass and slip-slided my way up the slope and then over the boulders to Meall nan Ceapraichean.  It was now 3am, a time when I had anticipated a reasonable light this far North West, but there was little sign of dawn.  In the mirky darkness I bumbled down the boulders to the slightly confusing terrain beneath Beinn Dearg.  I must have missed the stalkers path that should have cut across my path and ended up in an unfamiliar place, having to reset my course until after some while I made the wall that leads up to Beinn Dearg.  The light was still very poor and the rocks slippy, so I rather tentatively picked my way down to the bottom of the slope that leads up to Cona Mheall, but from there on things got better.  Half way down Beinn Dearg, I emerged from the mist to reveal a glorious sunrise over the Fannaichs, glowing pink above a blanket of cloud beneath.

A fine day beckons over the Fannaichs (Photo - Ian Charters) 

There was no hiccup this time as I reached Ian's car at the roadside, ready for my breakfast, a change of top  and a brief reprieve.  In the cool of the early morning I made steady progress up Beinn Liath Mhor Fannaich, just managing to keep out of the clouds which stretched away to the East like an extended wooly blanket.The rocks over Sgurr Mor were still somewhat treacherous, so my pace was somewhat gentle but the morning was fine.  It soon became clear, however, that my legs hadn't recovered from the battering over the past 10 days and my progress remained rather laboured.  On the descent of Sgurr nan Each I inevitably slithered into the bog as a result of my trail shoes being wholly unable to cope with the wet tussocky grass.  I was taking an age and was not enjoying the experience.  I couldn't see much possibility of completing within 24 hours and concluded that if I continued like this I would have to retire at the next support point.  I had simply done too much over the past 10 days, was grossly overtired and no amount of desire would overcome that.  I plodded a little dejectedly up Sgurr Bhreac, but by the summit I had recovered a little poise and as the ground dried and the mists cleared further, the tide began to turn in my favour.  Instead of getting slower and slower, I was actually improving.  By the time I reached Ian at the col before Groban, my spirits had risen considerably and after refuelling and changing into shorts and tee shirt, commenced the grassy roller-coaster to the ridge leading up to Mullach Coire Mhic Fhearchair.  This is a fine crest replete with pinnacles and views that extend to Torridon, An Teallach and the rest of Fisherfield.  Without stopping I continued down the white rocks from the summit and on to the towers of Beinn Tarsuinn, before slithering down the screes to the pass below A Mhaighdean.  The bog was beautifully dry with cracked peaty hollows and crackling grass, but I had long since run out of water and none was to be found.  On the summit of the Maiden I met my first (and only) people of the day who must have thought I was nuts to run up in shorts and tee shirt and then set off immediately after recording the lap time.  In a rising wind they were huddled in gloves, coats and hats, quote rightly admiring what is one of the best views in Britain - the Western seaboard seen over a myriad of lochans, crags and rough wilderness that makes A Mhaighdean one of the most remote peaks in Britain.

Approaching Shenavall (Photo - Ian Charters)

It is a long way down from the next peak, Ruadh Stac Mor, but I was now becoming increasingly confident that I could make it within 24 hours and I pushed on as best I could in the strong Easterly breeze.  The bog was as dry as I have known it at Larachantivore but its still a bit of a slog over the moor and a thrash across the rivers until you reach the haven of the bothy at Shenavall.  By now, my feet were sore, my shoes were falling apart and my shoulders were aching from carrying a rucksack, but with just one major hill to climb, the end was in sight and after a feed and change of clothing I set off for the monumental climb directly up Sail Mor.  For those not acquainted with this route, it rises 850m in just over a mile of pathless, heather strewn and bouldery mountain wall.  The first time it is very intimidating, but having done it a few times, I knew what was in store and just set about pulling my aching limbs upward.  Not that this makes it physically easier, but the mental battle has been won.  72 minutes later I lurched over the summit in a gale, and somewhat apprehensively skittered down the scree to the col where the wind was rushing up from the corrie wall, threatening to knock me off the mountain.  The mist hung over the towers above rather ominously and my favourite mountain took on a rather more malevolent nature.  I changed my mind more than once before going for the pinnacles and in the event, by timing my jumps between wind gusts and hanging on tightly, managed perfectly easily over the Corrag Buidhe pinnacles and the great leaning tower of Lord Berkeley's Seat.  Today there was no view of the yawning chasm beneath and in any case, I didn't investigate too closely in the gale.  After Sgurr Fiona I just wanted to get back.  The dryness of the ground made for an easy trot down the Glas Alt Mor and with 10 minutes to spare I ran up the familiar red van in to which I was quickly hustled to escape the voracious appetites of the midges.

Schedule
Ian and Pauline's Photos

Charnley Way, 2 June 2012

A route linking 3 hostels in the Lakes, 39 miles, 11,800 feet, 11 hours, 10 mins


The Charnley Way was devised in memory of Gerry Charnley who died tragically on Helvellyn.  The route is centred on the 'Charnley Cairn' a rather insignificant bump 500m South of Esk Pike.  The route takes in Thunacar Knott, Longthwaite Youth Hostel in Borrowdale, Glaramara, Scafell Pike, Scafell, Slight Side, Eskdale Youth Hostel, The Charnley Cairn, Crinkle Crages, Pike O Blisco and Lingmoor before returning to High Close Youth Hostel.  Billy Bland is the record holder in just over 7 and a half hours, but mere mortals like me take rather longer - a bit over 11 hours in my case.

Lingcove Bridge - heaven before the long climb up to Charnley Cairn

It makes a good day out without being overly long and takes in both valleys and ridges.  I started and finished near Elterwater and after a very steady start, accelerated up to Scafell and then struggled up Eskdale in to a headwind with very heavy, stiff legs - probably a result of the previous weekend on my epic straight line expedition.  The help of a rope for someone's BG made for a swift crossing to Scafell, but from Eskdale its a long hard grind up to the Charnley Cairn. Its not my favourite sort of terrain around Langdale which probably explains why I can't see myself repeating it, but it made a decent day out nevertheless.

You can read more including Ben Abdelnoor's account here.

Schedule

102 West May 2012

A simple concept - follow a course due West across the Lakes, 41 miles, 19,500 feet, 20 hours 45 mins


The concept might have been simple, but the execution was not.  Despite very poor running form, I decided to set a different sort of challenge that would involve exploration of some previously unvisited corners.  A perusal of the map revealed a possible line due West from Shap Wells to near Cleator Moor crossing over 50 grid squares in the process.  Only one line was possible without having to swim across lakes or dally with danger on vegetated cliffs, and that predicated a start from near Shap Wells.  I allowed myself the luxury of a 200m deviance either side of Northing 102 and made plans for a bivvy before returning to Langdale for my lift home.

Sunrise over Wet Sleddale

I departed at about 4:15 am, shortly after first light.  I soon left the track for hours of pathless wandering, starting with the tussocks of the Shap fells.  With a day and a half of food and spare clothing and bag for the bivvy I never really established much of a run, but it was pleasant enough ambling along in the soft light of early morning, the sun rising over Wet Sleddale reservoir.  Before long I was in home country, slanting up past Mosedale cottage to Artle Crag then the first steep descent of the day to near Haweswater.  The shoulder of Harter Fell provided the first awkward ground of the expedition - an upward traverse of scree, grassy shelves and crags that makes a better winter goal than a summer outing.  I stuck as close as I could to Northing 102 and descended to Small Water where campers were lapping up the early morning sun.  The tarn glistened under the dazzling sun as I slanted up towards Mardale Ill Bell and thence Thornythwaite Beacon.  A keen wind blew across the plateau but coming as it was from the east I would have it behind me the whole day and in any case it was welcome relief under the unrelenting sun.

Another steep slope

By the Kirkstone road, the sun's power began to take its full effect.  A steep descent from Caudale Moor was immediately followed by a stiff pull up beside the wall and thence to Little Hart Crag.  I crossed the Fairfield ridge just below Dove Crag and to the surprise of two walkers disappeared straight over the crest for the valley floor.  they must have thought my route-finding was terrible.  The ascent of Great Rigg beyond looked intimidating but it wasn't quite as bad as it appeared, although the unrelenting steep slopes were beginning to take a toll on my legs.  I tried to take as close a line as I could across the Grasmere road, but after 3 difficult walll crossings came to the conclusion that it wasn't very responsible and headed back down the road before heading up the track below Helm Crag.  Here I had my first break by the stream, greedily tucking into two wraps and throwing as much liquid down my gullet as I could manage.  The sun was starting to get to me now.  I had rarely experienced such an intense sun.  There was nothing to stop it - not a cloud in the sky and no haze to relieve the burning rays.  With no ridges to follow, I laboured under the burden of my sack and the lack of a a decent track - indeed any track - to follow.  The route was so illogical that there were no trods and the traverse beneath Blea Rigg was somewhat tortuous with unstable scree and rocks unavoidably littering the slopes.  I met a group of fellrunners heading up towards High Raise who looked as though they were attempting a Joss Naylor traverse, but I was soon left to make my way toward Low White Stones and from there to make the steep descent to Langstrath.  I somewhat envied the daytrippers lounging by the river.  They stared at me amusedly as I ploughed through the river, splashed myself , doffed my cap in the water and headed upwards, water dripping from the peak.  Unfortunately I knew all too well what lay beyond - a particularly unrelenting ascent of Glaramara, or to be precise, the top West of the summit.  

Toiling up Glaramara

I had come this way on my Lakes 2500s round and it wasn't any easier this time as I frazzled in the afternoon rays.  A solo unsupported expedition is really tough when its like this - there's just no relief - and hydration is a major issue.  After what seemed like an age I eventually reached the top, but the descent was scarcely any easier.  Its a brutal descent beside Hinds Gill and my legs had gone, turned to jelly by the continuous effort and wilting in the sun.  To make matters worse, it was obvious that my feet were going to be a real problem too.  Having become wet and without a change of socks, the heat was creating pressure sores and blisters, such that every footfall was painful.  From then on, I knew that I had a long day ahead - running was a distant memory.

Great Hell Gate

Still the day was fine, if hot, and despite an equally brutal ascent of Seathwaite Fell, I recovered a little joie de vive.  The diagonal ascent of Gable aded a bit of interest.  I started traversing too low and ended up in the crags before Great Hell Gate, a well named sweep of skittering scree that splits the Napes.  A singularly uninviting upward traverse of immensely unstable scree and rocks to the top of the Napes ensued, made all the more awkward by my burning feet that screamed out at every step.  Still, it made for a properly demanding challenge and the views from the top of the Napes make up for any hardship, with the sweep of the screes accentuating the cliffs that bound them.

I elected to take to the screes that fall to the South of Beck Head, not fancying the White Napes, but the difference is marginal.  All the scree in these parts is loose, run out and with my feet, highly unpleasant.  But it  seemed like nothing compared to what was to come.  The traverse of the fellside 200m below the summit of Kirkfell was truly horrendous in my decrepit state.  Each step was an effort to avoid slipping on the stones that now and then rattled down towards Wasdale Head.  The route wove in and out of gullies across wide fans of unavoidable scree.  Every now and then I would slip, jabbing my poor toes against a rock.  Other times, a rock would end up on my foot and my legs felt as if they were being tortured with the tensing of muscles trying to stay upright.  Once the ridge leading down to Wasdale Head was crossed, the terrain did ease, but by then my legs and feet had really had it.  Without poles, I was reduced to a somewhat painful stagger down the steep slopes to Mosedale.

The Gully on Red Pike

As soon as I reached the shade I lay down and dangled my feet in the air.  Relief!  After a couple more wraps, energy drink and a sit down, life was tolerable once more.  But the final steep ascent lay above - a wall of rock and grass to the summit of Red Pike.  This resembles Cwm Glas in North Wales, albeit on a smaller scale and I'd not been here before, so despite the continued effort, I thoroughly enjoyed the exploration of this new corner of a familiar land.  It was clear from the map that the summit headwall would have to be breached by a steep gully.  It wasn't clear that this would 'go' until I was almost upon it, but once below the gully itself, I could see a route past the chockstone and I was soon on the ridge and taking in the evening air on the foresummit of Red Pike.

With the major difficulties over, I even managed a shuffle downwards past Scoat Tarn and in to the shady hollow beneath.  A quick skirt around the crags beneath Haycock revealed the Scafells in the dark red hue of sunset, with Seatallan similarly bathed in late evening light.  It had long been clear that I would not finish before nightfall, such had been my excruciatingly slow pace from Glaramara, and never having considered that I might take such an age to complete the outward journey, I had packed just a reading light of a small Tikka torch with poor batteries.  I therefore pressed on as best I could to make the most of the remaining light.  Another steep descent and ascent led to Caw Fell and then it was dark.  The Tikka was quite pathetic.  After a few minutes I switched it off with no discernible disadvantage.  In my tired state and poor light I then went too far right on the broad shoulder of the hill and ended up 1 km upstream of where I should have been.  In the dark and without a usable light I elected to follow the path, along which I slowly stumbled, aware that the journey was drawing out ever longer.  After a day of bone dry hillside, the only path was wet and I found myself sloshing through squelching bog every so often.  Without being able to see properly I just had to plough through it all.  On and on it went, until finally the track improved and I could make better progress.  At 1am I reached the road that marked the end of my journey, prised off my shoes and inspected my poor feet.  Blisters bulged alarmingly, but for now I could forget about them.  I had a celebratory swig of juice, crawled into my bivvy bag and immediately fell asleep.

Early morning light on Ennerdale Water

Unfortunately the cold soon woke me up, as did a couple of cars whizzing by after a night on the town.  At 2:45 I'd had enough and breakfasted on my remaining wrap, before sauntering down the road toward Ennerdale bridge.  Some time earlier I'd realised an oversight in my planning - I'd forgotten to take a map for the return journey and I was now off the map. No matter - I'd follow the road to Ennerdale and from there it was obvious back over Windy Gap and Esk Hause.  It would be a slow 25 miles of walking.

In actual fact, the walk proved to be moderately enjoyable, at least for the most part.  The early morning light on Ennerdale Water was exquisite, which is more than could be said for the slog up to Windy Gap in the heat of the morning.  But by 1:30 I was sitting outside the ODG tucking into a well deserved lunch.  It had been a gruelling weekend.

Pictures