Day 2: Ennerdale Bridge to Rosthwaite

Easy Going, then Rain, then Disaster

Left Ennerdale bridge 8:45 a.m., finished at 11:00 p.m.

Day started out fine: overcast, a little breezy, a comfortable feeling. Took the south route along Ennerdale Lake, along with about 5 other hikers. They soon left me. An easy five miles over gravel road; then the rains started, and by the time I stopped at a Youth Hostel, I was soaked. Then I started my way--by myself--up the steep hills, carefully following the path. This was around 2:00 p.m.

From then on until 11:00, it was unmitigated disaster. The higher I climbed, the nastier the weather turned, with gale force winds, and then the entire mountains covered in mist. I could see perhaps five feet in front of me. I continued following the trail, spotting footprints of those ahead of me (but nowhere in sight). The climb became more and more treacherous. Wet grass, wet and loose rocks, gale winds, visibility ten feet, sheep turds everywhere, and me not knowing where the hell I was. I was stuck on that mountain, going up 2,700 feet, for eight hours.

One of the hardest things to do is climb up the 40-degree steep slopes; harder still, was coming back down the other side. I fell at least ten times, fortunately just scrapes. And for a time, the only way down was to crawl backwards feet first. I did this for probably 500 yards, down the steep slopes.

I have to admit I was truly frightened. One false step could mean a broken ankle or a very nasty fall. It had to be the worse eight hours of my life: freezing cold, constant rain, lost, with no help in sight (cell phones didn't reach out here). All I could think of was my old friend David B., who loved to mountain climb, and who froze to death on the Andes Mountains some twenty years ago. I wasn't going to freeze, but who knows what shape I would be in. After one climbed ridge only led to another, I was accepting the fact that I might have to spend the night on one of these high ridges. Just me, the rain, and the sheep.

Finally, at 9:00 p.m., the mist lifted, and I could see far down the valley and see some signs of civilization. If only I could get down there (from about 2,400 feet) in two hours, before the daylight was completely gone. I made it, bruised, demoralized, totally fatigued, with five minutes to spare. Fortunately, it doesn't get dark this time of year in this part of England until 11:00, but by the time I knocked on the farm house door, I was barely able to see any thing. Too close for comfort.

More on my physical travails and my rescue from the wilds of the Lake District in my next posting. Suffice to say, I'm bruised, battered, but okay. Perhaps learned a lesson or two about what is and what isn't within my grasp. Maybe I should stick to Bach Two-Part Inventions.