Wasdale · Monday July 10, 2006
Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wildness is a necessity; and that mountain parks and reservations are useful not only as fountains of timber and irrigating rivers, but as fountains of life – John Muir
Wasdale is the most remote part of the Lake District, a convenient base for England’s highest mountain and home to its deepest lake. The road, either from Eskdale or coastal areas of the Irish Sea, takes you to the head of the valley and you have to return the same way. The journey starts at a forested area where mist hangs in the morning, passes the famous Wastwater screes plunging hundreds of feet down to the lake, and finishes at the foot of Pillar, Great Gable, and the Scafells. It’s one of the quieter areas of the Lakes because of the difficulty of getting there, but discerning walkers often say it’s their favourite place. It’s the most dramatic part of Lakeland, threatening to some but exciting to others.
On first visiting Wasdale my impressions were not favourable, dominated as they were by the screes on the right as I drove down the valley. I later reflected, what was it about them I disliked: they were too sharp, too angular, too bleak; how wonderful it would be if planners made creative use of some dynamite, reshaping them into more aesthetic forms. They are an unavoidable feature of Wasdale, but not the most important and they now bother me less. Like the scars of an urban landscape, you filter them out of your perception because your focus is elsewhere. You can’t avoid noticing them but their significance is softened with memories of happy days at the end of the valley, or the promise of more to come.
I was there again during November 2005, while staying in nearby Eskdale; I’d been inspired by a little sunshine, hoping for settled weather. The day was uncertain, and could have gone either way: cloudy gloom, or maybe the rising sun would burn through and redeem it. Lakeland valleys have their own microclimates and Wasdale is often very different to Eskdale; in my experience, it tends to be worse. You don’t know what you will find, and as I snaked along the road I was drawn by the magnetic attraction of the distant peaks, gazing hungrily for the promise of blue sky. The screes and the ridge above them obscure the sun, but as the skyline lowered bright light thrilled into the valley from over Burnmoor Tarn. Would this lift and burn through the lingering vapours around Gable and the Scafells?
Wasdale feels an adventure, partly because of its inherent drama and partly because of the journey getting there. One day, I tell myself, I will explore the woodland end much as I’ve explored Borrowdale woods; but like most people I head straight for the head of the valley, so the twenty minute drive is full of anticipation. When you leave the screes behind, quiet fields open around you and the Scafells dominate the skyline; the hidden track of Brown Tongue goes up to Mickledore, and the grassy swelling of Lingmell curves around to an unseen viewpoint across to Gable, before climbing up to Scafell Pike. After years of experience, I sometimes set off on a Lakeland morning not sure what walk to take; I know the possibilities, and decide when I get there depending on how I feel and how the weather is looking. I decided on Lingmell, and a descent down the Corridor Route, an area I enjoy with the added advantage of being a shorter route than others, suiting my leisurely approach and the relatively late hour of the morning.
The parking area was almost deserted, just a handful of cars and two walkers who were also heading for Lingmell. Over the stile, and you cross a gorse and tree-covered field with a clear view to Gable. Over the river, and you begin to climb the track overlooking distant Wastwater, with Yewbarrow to your right. The sun was still streaming in from Burnmoor Tarn. You start to exert yourself, feel warm, then hot, and consider adjusting your clothing. The air was cold, technically it was autumnal, but feeling more like winter. I continued with both fleece and Paclite, reasoning that as I ascended it would only get cooler and, in particular, in the shade it was cold despite your exertions.
I cut across the steep slopes of Lingmell, and the other two walkers continued round the hill to Brown Tongue. I reasoned they were probably heading for Scafell Pike, the most popular outing because of its fame: England’s highest outlook. Many people don’t appreciate that going up to Lingmell first provides you with magnificent ridge views over to Pillar, and then Gable, from which point you can then get to Scafell Pike whereas Brown Tongue is in a deep gully, hidden from the sun. As I climbed Lingmell, the cloud travelled slowly across the skyline so one moment the Scafells were wholly obscured, and the next their brooding edges were etched against a blue sky. And I noticed with some satisfaction that cloud was swirling into the Brown Tongue gully, so it was obviously a better choice to be above it, enjoying the views. But then minutes later the cloud swelled over the slopes from below, and I too was enveloped in soft vapours: would it pass, or was this another less than satisfactory day? There was nothing to see beyond the receding swell of Lingmell, for about fifty feet. I’d removed my Paclite shell during these exertions, but realised I would have to replace it now the sun was obscured, and I would soon reach more level and less strenuous ground where I’d feel cold. Sheep were grazing to my left and the world was silent, apart from my boots crunching over the rocky path, sometimes indistinct and at other times carefully constructed, preserving the slopes from wayward erosion. The cloud thinned, I could make out the Scafells, then thickened again like soup and I was resigned to a day like this, not at all what I’d wanted. I’m an aesthetic walker; I do it primarily to enjoy the views, the freedom, and the solace of wild and unspoilt environments with high altitude beauty. Occasionally, inevitably, I find myself in rain or gloom, despite my fair-weather planning. Like changing gear I move down to another kind of enjoyment, which is worthwhile but very different: the satisfactions of fresh air and exercise, and the feeling of psychological expansion as you wander a vast open space. It’s good for the soul, a vigorous therapy that unfailingly puts mundane life into perspective, because of the literal change of perspective derived from the mountains. But the very best day is with blue skies and sunshine; my mood changes like the passing conditions, either exalted and content, or still glad to be there but stoic and just slightly grim.
Then about halfway up Lingmell the weather played its final trick on me, and as it transpired, thereby defined the rest of the day. The cloud had cleared again, not brilliantly but with a pleasantly murky sunshine, then swept into the Brown Tongue gully and, once again, spilled over the top across Lingmell. It happened to my left also, filling the Wasdale valley and obscuring Pillar. Then it settled, content to be there with no desire to sweep up to the high ridges. It was the condition known as cloud inversion where the sun cannot penetrate the vapours to warm the valleys, and the air above is warmer. You often see it on a small scale, and may have enjoyed photographs where it’s particularly dramatic, usually in the early morning. I didn’t expect this to last, and spent thirty minutes moving uphill quickly and across to the sides of Lingmell seeking an interesting rock, or attractive curve of path, to foreground this astonishing sight in my camera. I stalked some grass-munching sheep, and got a few shots before they noticed me and ran. The Scafells towered above the cloud unimpressed, Pillar and Red Pike projected above it on the other side and Illgill Head, the ridge above the Wastwater screes, was like an island. Wastwater itself was invisible; normally a grey backdrop to the Lingmell slope, you wouldn’t know it was there if you hadn’t seen it previously.
This was an exceptional day. I left the path and went across the slope to see the Pillar area better, and approach the Lingmell viewpoint to Gable in the best way. It was the view you get from an aeroplane, or from an Alpine peak: a sea of cloud. I wondered how far it would extend along to Gable, and it appeared to thin and disperse below the striated triangular heights. I abandoned my plan to descend to the Corridor Route, choosing instead to stay high and enjoy the cloudscape, and probably return the way I’d come. When I reached the heights of Lingmell I could see the cloud thinned slightly below Gable, but continued beyond it down to Styhead Tarn and Borrowdale. It extended over Ennerdale and towards Grasmoor and beyond, towards the Solway Firth and Scotland. The entire Lake District was covered in soft white cloud, while about a thousand feet above it was bright, sunny and like summer.
Breakfast had not been substantial and I’d eaten nothing since, not wanting to waste time. I was tired and weak, and decided to unpack my lunch by the Lingmell cairn. I wondered if this day would be on the news; after tales of conflict, politics and woe, something like: “if you were lucky enough to be walking in the Lake District today, you would have enjoyed the best cloud inversion for thirty years“ and a few photos, sent to the BBC by camera phone. I decided to make the extra effort to ascend Scafell Pike, seeking the highest viewpoint in the country in these astonishing conditions. I arrived forty minutes later, there was still no one to be seen – a rare occurrence – and the sun was setting across a sea, not of Irish water but of glowing white cloud. The Isle of Man was just discernible, a small projection on the skyline.
Time to get down, and I had to move quickly to benefit from the remaining light. I decided on the path going down to Brown Tongue, because the slopes of Lingmell are an arduous ascent and an unpleasant descent, your toes jammed forward and the grass slippery and precarious. Not for the first time I wanted to stay in the mountains, and was especially appalled at leaving this elevated beauty, entering the cloudy darkness below. What I hadn’t anticipated is a damp misty cloud so thick it had caused accidents on the roads, I later discovered, which in this wild location was ink-black because the sun had now set. Additionally, although it was a preferable descent compared to Lingmell, the stony track was slippery so I had to step at a slow pace, cocooned in a six-foot cone of headlamp irradiation. Fortunately I knew the path, knew my directions, or I could have been in trouble. An hour and a half later I was back in the Wasdale fields, a short walk back to my parked car.