Approximately fifteen years ago I had a few days in a Lake District winter. I was staying in a farm house bedroom and ate at the Glenridding Youth Hostel. “It’s like a big white golf ball” a chap said, referring to Swirral Edge. There was a sense of us and them comradeship against the winter. We sat on the lounge seats while a chap browsed the books and magazines. We all waited for dinner.
I’d had a relatively easy day and was considering Helvellyn tomorrow. I had no crampons, no axe, and little experience. I was worried but felt I must see it for myself because I didn’t know what he meant. Every year in Britain it’s the same. People get into trouble in the hills, Mountain Rescue are called, and people sneer on social media. This occurs even when people die. Their fault they say, stay in London, time wasters, and similar. I was inexperienced once. Unlike English, Maths or Computing there is no inbuilt learning available. People walk the hills largely using their own initiative and they make mistakes. It’s not part of school education and learning by experience is central. I could easily have died.
I climbed Birkhouse Moor, crossed beside Red Tarn, feeling I must see for myself. The initial climb up to Swirral Edge was hazardous but not particularly difficult. Winter walking is inherently technical. You must pay attention to snow and ice but you feel that with your body. One slip and you will tumble a few feet. Your feet know that and your eyes tell you. You must go slowly but this is no different to an icy city pavement.
I reached the beginning of the Swirral Edge ridge and the situation changed. If I slipped here I’d plummet seriously but not fatally. Snow was everywhere and sharp rocks underneath. It’s very unattractive thinking about cutting, bruising trauma in cold conditions. Better to stay in the warm indoors and read a book. The reality is partly about extreme discomfort and pain but also emotional shock. Adrenalin will cushion you. Not pleasantly so, but you won’t experience the pain with as much normal feeling. We know this when we walk, stumble and cut ourselves badly and don’t realise this until we get home. I’m not saying this is good. I’m saying we can analyse and think about this subject.
The path was narrow. Two or three feet for much of it, which meant one way direction only. There were passing places where you had to wait, or pass others waiting. It was worse going back. I considered going back but it meant descending not climbing very slippery areas. The next day at a Glenridding pub I heard a woman had got stuck, frozen in fear, and had to be helicopered to safety. I heard other tales too about the dangers of Helvellyn, Striding Edge, and Swirral Edge.
I kept going, reaching the point where the white golf ball appeared. This is what he’d meant. Thirty feet of curving snow and ice, it was mountaineering not walking. I looked back again. I didn’t think I could do it. The narrow track dropped back down to Red Tarn, much more dangerous in descent. The day had progressed and more people were snaking upwards. There was a queue with people waiting at the bottom, more coming across to begin the climb.
My safety – and I reflected on this later – depended on the traction of a few square inches of icy contact. There were kicked out footholes and nothing more. If your foot slipped out the slip would continue. I’d been surveying the drop on both sides. To the right, it was impossibly precipitous. The rocks there were black, brutal, and ugly. Your body weight inclined toward the left with every step on the approach which was almost inevitable but not a good idea. You want your feet as flat and perpendicular as possible.
The drop on the left was snowy and icy ending at black Red Tarn. You would look – you must do it as of human necessity – and think if you fall won’t stop. I had no choice. People were coming up behind me. I reasoned the golf ball was a desperate but shorter option of thirty feet. I kicked every step into the holes but it made no difference. They were impacted as much as possible and I wondered who had started them. I twisted my boot a little, testing, and the problem was partly the size of them. Your foot must fit there and nowhere else. There was no room for manoeuvre; the margin of error was tiny and unreliable.
I resolved I must get to the top – it was how I would survive – but I knew it was very dangerous. I lost some concentration because I was hyperventilating and frightened. Before I began the final climb I gazed across to the Helvellyn summit and Striding Edge opposite. I thought of the cold stillness of the hills and their oblivious lack of care. I thought, later, of Breughel’s painting The Fall Of Icarus. He falls to his death unseen and unnoticed by workers in the fields below. They cut and dig and retrieve vegetables from the earth.
I read later another chap’s rumination on the possibility of death in the hills. It’s no place to die, he said, not Romantic but full of dread and devastating alone. That’s true but it’s also true everyone dies alone. There’s no possible comfort. You leave the sentiment of others as you leave the world. German philosopher Martin Heidegger spoke about this. He said anxiety about death is not about death. It’s about the unknown. Where you have no control, no knowledge, literally no idea. The other emotion Heidegger discusses is wonder. Wonder too relates to the unknown and the hills. We feel awe, sublimity, expansion.
Five years ago I had another near death moment in a car. A swerving vehicle forced me to react and I established, later, a tyre twisted off my wheel. It shouldn’t have done that at eighty miles an hour and I reflected on the garage where, on another occasion, they returned my vehicle and my brakes failed after a service. Fortunately I didn’t have an accident. When I crashed – I was returning from Scotland – I lost control, my car sustaining lateral impact as it spun around, twice, into trees, bushes and whatever else was there beside the motorway. It would have been the end of me if I’d hit the concrete central reservation, another car, or anything head on. It lasted about five seconds and in the final moment I slumped in my seat. “Were you bracing yourself” the nurse said. “No” I said, “it was resignation.” In the last second I’d lost control, knew I’d lost control, and didn’t know what was going to happen.
Dylan Thomas tried to summon a rage against the light for his dying father. He wrote about the green force in the fuse, the life and growth of nature. PJ Harvey wrote then sung about “cruel nature” which in the final analysis refers to impermanence and death. No one gets out alive. Nature in my life has been both. It saved my life beside the M6 and nearly killed me at Helvellyn. The next day, in a local shop, a man told me how he’d found a body at Red Tarn and had to drag it across the ice.
One year later I climbed Striding Edge in winter with an axe. I looked back every few metres, frightened of making a similar mistake. I’d not read it and no one had told me this advice but I repeat it now. If you’re concerned for your safety, always make sure you can turn back. You don’t know what lies ahead and if you think it’s dangerous, you’re safe. Be aware of what’s behind you.
I was frightened but determined too. I would surmount the Swirral Edge trauma. It’s for these kind reasons I refer to the hills as an existential playground. “To venture causes anxiety” said Soren Kierkegaard “but not to venture is to lose oneself.”