Jumping Waterfalls and a Very Nice Man – Alison (Nov 1998)

It was going to be one of those weekends - an accident on the M25, road works on the M6, the hut shower didn’t work, and it was raining on Saturday morning; but undaunted, six of us decided to tackle Crinkle Crags and Bow Fell.  There were a few glimmers of bright sky, someone muttered something about the weather improving as the day went on, and the car park at the Old Dungeon Ghyll was nearly empty (although with hindsight, maybe everyone else had had a more accurate weather report?), so we didn’t think we were that crazy.  A few chaps from the RAF Mountain Rescue team were heading up the same way (could they have also known what was coming and were getting into position on the tops?).  We leapfrogged each other a few times as we stopped at different points, but we lost sight of them just as we reached the start of the Crinkles. 

As you would expect, there was a bit of a wind on the top, but nothing to write home about.  We’d gone over the first of the five crinkles before it started getting really windy.  It was raining more persistently by then as well, although it was actually falling as snow up there.  We fought the wind a bit further, but it was starting to get scary as we were being blown all over the place and we decided to turn back (I don’t know about the others but I was hoping that this wind was just on the tops and that we’d soon be back on the sheltered path we’d walked up - some hope!).  It seemed to be getting worse and I was finding it increasingly difficult to stay on my feet, let alone move.  I desperately needed some food too (it must have been gone 1.00 by then and we hadn’t eaten yet), so the shelter came out and Karen and I tried to warm up a bit - but the wind even found us in there too and at times it seemed as though it would take off with us in it!

“It will get better once we get off the top” someone said.  But it didn’t.  In fact, it was getting worse, or maybe that was just the impression I got as I was losing the strength to fight it - being smaller and lighter it seemed to pick on me more than the others.  I was also getting more and more frightened - feeling your legs being lifted by some uncontrollable force is not pleasant.  But the only way down was to keep going.  The worst bit was after we were well on the way down; we were walking into it then but it was slow progress as the best I could manage was a slow sideways shuffle - even if I faced into the wind and put all my weight against it, it just lifted me up and onto my backside!  This led us into the car wash - a waterfall where the water was being blown up and over the edge.  Steve and Tony faced the brunt of my expletives and it must have seemed a long way down.  It wasn’t until we were almost on the valley bottom before we could walk properly again.

Damp and bedraggled it was tea all round in the pub - nearly everyone in there was doing the same and it was teabags in mugs when the teapots ran out!  We were all quite damp and, thinking back, it must have rained quite a lot as the path which had been damp on the way up had turned into a fast running river on the way down, but I was concentrating on the wind too much to notice.  There was no sign of the mountain rescuers; I expect they were being kept busy that afternoon (stretchers only as well, as no helicopter could have got in there).  We were probably lucky to get down with just bruises and a cut leg (suffered by Steve when he was blown into a rock).  Peter said he’d spoken to some sailors  (not that they were sailing that day) who reckoned it was Force 9.  Since then I’ve been in high winds with a more accurate forecast of Force 8-10 which wasn’t nearly as bad as that day in the Lakes, so I think 9 was a bit of an underestimate.

The wind did eventually blow itself out and took the rain with it, and Sunday morning was quite sunny, although there had been a very heavy frost.  I still felt a bit shell-shocked from the day before so I joined Bill on a “viewing” circuit involving Blea Tarn and then on to Lingmoor Fell, where we had magnificent views of the Crinkle Crags and the Langdale Pikes.  A reasonably early get-away from the hut and a relatively flowing M6 got us all to our rendezvous pub at the top of the M40 by 7.30, and we were looking forward to an early night.  As I said though, it was one of those weekends and, without going into detail (Bill will tell you the full story I’m sure!), after a very nice man from the AA with a hacksaw it was gone midnight for the first drop-off.  Another epic!