Lizzie Wild Camping

I seem to be getting a bit behind with my blogs, so it's time for a catch up. And this one's a grand microadventure! At the beginning of July, Lizzie came to stay with me for a few weeks. One of the things I've been promising was that we'd sleep on top of a mountain, so as soon as we could, we did.

We started just around tea time from a layby near the foot of Tryfan. The weather was mild, high pressure, warm and still. We ascended from the car park, first following the path, then bearing left. From here we cut across and up the gully over the top of Craig Bochlwyd, heading for to the Llyn (of the same name) that nestles in between Tryfan, Glyder Fach and Y Gribin. The ascent was quite steep, but I was surprised how easy it was to motivate Lizzie up the steep slope. Even Tangfastics were not required! Once over the top, a small but conquerable patch of marshy ground slowed us briefly, more because I didn't have waterproof footwear on, than anything Lizzie couldn't cope with. Once beyond this, we arrived at the outlet of the Llyn, and continued westward.

On the west side of the lake is a perfect camping venue: a large and flat ancient moraine heap, deposited about 10,000 years ago by a dwindling glacier at the end of the last Ice Age. Since then, nature has taken it's course, covering the rock with enough soil and grass to get a pegs into. Close cropping by the native sheep and goats have transformed it into something of a perfect camping venue, where the grass is short and rivals most commercial campsites (even those elsewhere in the valley) and which charge for the privilege. The wind shelter is also pretty good from the mountainous amphitheatre surrounding the Cwm. I pitched my Wild Country Zephyros 2 quickly, then fed us both on my small but perfectly-formed MSR microrocket: First Lizzie had chicken noodles, while I prepared my usual roast vegetable couscous with a packet of instant potato and leek soup (700 calories right there!). A small circle of fire-charred stones, left by a not-so-environmentally-conscious previous visitor, acted as my windshield.

The ambience of this place is slightly strange at this time of summer. The shadow cast by Y Gribin onto the cliffs of Bristly Ridge and Glyder Fach doesn't seem to change very much. The angle of the ridge must exactly match that at which the sun sets. This means that half of the cwm is in shade and half in sun, all evening, right up until the moment when the sun disappears, leaving an instant, chilly twilight.

Despite wearing my down jacket, Lizzie was soon getting cold, so as the blue sky faded, we settled down in our sleeping bags.

Lizzie slept like a log right through until about 7. I, however, was awake just before dawn, and able to sample the sunrise, a spectacle of almost the same light as sunset.

The wind had stirred slightly in the night, and was now quite a stiff breeze. I wasn't keen to hang around with a potentially chilly 8 year old, so after a fairly basic breakfast of croissants and cereal bars, we headed back to the car and home, a little weary but happy.

3 Lessons From Scafell Pike Wild Camping

For last week's adventure, I chose the stunning Eskdale and the craggy Scafell and Scafell Pike. The idea was to make the most of the Bank Holiday with a 2 day Wild camp in practice for my ML. In practice I got soaked through to the skin, almost blown away (well, maybe) and fantasised about eating doner kebabs... but learned plenty!

Looking back down Lower Eskdale

Saturday

I arrived at the bottom of the Hard Knott Pass at 5pm, an hour later than hoped, partly due to an unfortunate car who managed to slash both left tyres in a passing bay in the Wrynose Pass. Oh dear. I parked in the old bus turning bay just before the cattle grid (restriction signs have now been removed, yay!). Ready to go, I set off up the path on the east side of the  lower Eskdale. The sky was overcast, but not foreboding. The weather was comfortable and humid, but not oppressively so. All seemed well, suggesting that the weatherman had been wrong in forecasting light rain for almost 24 hours. We'll see!

Lower Eskdale offers a beautiful stroll along a reasonably broad glacial valley with the impressive Esk waters winding along its base, hissing and roaring their presence over every boulder, fall and meander. I'd walked this path to Lingcove Bridge before, about 18 months ago over the New Year. Then we'd turned east up the falls of Lingcove Beck and returned south via the summit of Hard Knott and sliding down to the Roman Fort. This time I continued over the bridge to the west, following the Esk itself up into a magnificent plateau backed by Scafell Pike and the imposing Cam Spout Crag. I crossed the river easily here once or twice without getting wet feet (this wasn't going to be an option tomorrow - read on, avids). Wild campers had already staked claims in the plain: a khaki teepee style tent and, a bit further on, a man with his dog in a small 2-man. We chatted only briefly because I still needed to reach the top of Allen Crags and Lincomb Tarns to camp. The man advised I went up the right edge of the valley (right of Tongue), which I kinda knew, but was nice of him to say.

Esk (front), Cam Spout Crag (centre) and Scafell Pike (right)

I carried on to the end of the plain & collected water just after Little Narrowcove. 

As I ascended the gorge toward the pass, the wind increased and the valley began to disappear in light cloud. Half way up, the rain began.

I arrived at the top in the cloud and rain, weary from the fast pace that I had set. I descended the right path past the shelter and ascended Allen crags. Some largely unnecessary dead reckoning found me south of the tarns but keen to settle for the night. I picked a relatively dry spot amongst the peaty bits and pitched the tent. I cooked up in the tent to keep out of the rain (a positive learning experience!) whilst wrapped in my sleeping bag to preserve warmth. I had a feeling that this was going to be a challenging night...

What a night! The winds picked up and it felt like my Wild Country Zephyros 2 was going to blow away! Several times I checked the tent pegs to see if they were still there. Luckily I was able to do this from inside the tent. One thing I did find odd was the light: it wasn't pitch dark here. Having checked the moon phases, there was only a waxing crescent that night, and there was so much cloud about that I was surprised that I could see inside the tent fine without using my head torch. It was nothing like being inside a cave or a mine. How strange!

Sunday

Despite my concerns of a flyaway tent, I slept solidly between 1200 and 03h00 and 03h30 and 06h30. Only then did one peg actually pull out, letting in the rain and showing that my overly soft, peaty camp spot probably wasn't ideal. Next time I'll find a dryer, bigger space. Lesson 1 learnt: arrive at camp site early to allow lots of time to find a pitch in daylight. The rain getting in the tent was a bit of a showstopper: things started to get damp, like my down sleeping bag, dry bags, and everything else. The only solution seemed to be grab a quick breakfast of granola with cold Options chocolate milk powder, then pack up a soaked tent and get moving.

Lincomb Tarns in a fleeting cloudless moment.

The morning continued to be grim: a strange mixture of rain showers, heavy clouds, and brief spells of clear sky when I felt like I was being blown around in the clouds! I chose to bag Glaramara and did so by 07h40, being given very brief but impressive glimpses down into Grains Gill and to Seathwaite Fell in between mostly thick cloud. I then headed back to the shelter south of Allen Crags. I sat here for a while, ate some more, noticing the huge amount of rubbish that littering scumbags leave behind. I filled a spare bag with tea bags, apple cores, orange peel and two empty tuna tins that had been hidden under a rock!

My next destination was the Corridor Route. I headed down past Sprinkling Tarn, passing a handful more wild campers and gathering extra water. I took an executive decision to cut over the top of Sty Head and get some steep ground practice in. At this point the cloud was clear, so I could see easily where to go. I picked up the path and continued onwards and upwards. I chose the Corridor Route for today on a recommendation (not a personal one!) by Joss Naylor MBE in Terry Abraham's "Life of a Mountain: Scafell Pike": it is a very worthy route, with a mix of easy scrambling, and some beautiful and exposed paths: today it passed by and forded over the now very full and impressive falls down Skew and Greta Gills. Nobody here but me and the Herdwicks though!

Greta Gill(?) fights the clouds off briefly

I continued until I joined the scree slope heading east toward the bwlch between Broad Crag and Scafell Pike and followed it to the top. At this point I was really flagging. Time, I thought for a brew! I sheltered just down from the path, and boiled up half a litre of water. Once boiled, I decanted enough water to fill my flask and kept some in the kettle pot to cook some noodles. Oh, what blessed reward! Those noodles and a few cups of hot green tea revived my flagging spirits. Lesson 2 learned: If the weather is getting you down, get a brew on!

I was ready for the summit. I measured on the map, and paced until I found the summit 'cairn', a large round stack of boulders, which I then clambered up. Wow what a view! I was assured by a couple of local runners (who had summited moments before me) that I could see the whole of the Lake District from here on a good day. But not today: visibility remained limited to only the first path cairn down to the north. Poo!

At this point, I tried to navigate my way off the summit of Scafell Pike on my own. This is very hard to do for several reasons: the vast number of path cairns are difficult to ignore; the over-busy Ordnance Survey map of the area is strewn with words, path lines, but few helpful artifacts; and today's limited visibility. All this knocked my confidence, not to mention that my first bearing took me to some VERY steep rocks. So I wimped out a bit, took the easy option and followed the cairns. 

After all this rain, I was beginning to lose enthusiasm (what took me so long?!) as I headed toward Scafell. And there it loomed, out of the misty clouds: Broad Stand. I had originally planned to summit Scafell, but given the foul conditions and the sheer, wet, rock, this direction just looked foolhardy, and today, I was gonna be nobody's fool. I remember that there was the Lord's Rake route, but looking to the north of Broad Stand, I wasn't inspired to descend the steep scree slope with poles and heavy pack in that direction either. So I made an executive decision: now was the time to return to the Eskdale plateau and consider my options; maybe explore the east side of Eskdale.

The path to the south of Broad Stand, although very loose at the top, is actually quite impressive in the rain, with falls tumbling over the edge of Scafell from Fox's Tarn and onward and down to How Beck. There is, however, one 'river' crossing necessary. Generally, I expect, this isn't a problem. But the last 20 hours of rain had swollen the becks and made a simple step into a large jump or a wet wade. I chose a calculated jump! I carried on further and the clouds lifted enough. How Beck threw itself negligently down and over the waterfalls back into Eskdale, while I tottered carefully over the same rocks and warily down the peaty slopes.

The negligent How Beck Falls

As I reached Eskdale plateau once more, two things became evident: firstly, that all the rain had transformed the Esk from a inch-deep trickle into a full and dangerous flood of cold mountain water; and even now, How Beck wasn't going to be a walk-over either, metaphorically-speaking. Although it was: I followed it toward the impending Esk until the beck inexplicably split into two. Below the split by some distance the beck reached a shelf of stones on a corner that caused it to narrow and deepen along one edge. Crossing was now like walking through puddles and stepping over a half-metre wide stream. That was lucky! I headed to the banks of the Esk to inspect my chances of crossing. The flow was fast, wide and at least 60cm deep. I decided that I didn't need to completely retrace my steps. I would find a route on the west side of the Esk that precluded the need to wade! I continued to Sampson Stones, where Cam Spout Crag and other terrain offered some respite to the huge boulders and me from the wind.

It was now 2pm. I had a choice to make: stick it out for another night, or bail and go home. All of my layers were wet through; my tent was sitting in the bottom of my bag, full of water; I had only enough clothing to keep me dry sleeping in a dry tent in a dry bag. I was tired, and I was fantasising about Doner Kebabs! Surely that's a sign? As I sat in the light breeze, I shivered. Lesson 3 learnt: it's not worth risking hypothermia when I'm here on my own, irrespective of how beautiful Eskdale is! I checked the map and chose a route that removed all need to struggle across the Esk, down south along a shallow valley carrying Damas Dubs, running toward Scale Gill and my start point. I hurried along this route with renewed energy, anticipating a warm bed for the night! I arrived back at the van at 4pm, a mere 23 hours after I left and a good 5kg heavier due to wet kit. Thank you, Eskdale and Scafells, it was certainly an experience. I will be back!

Crossing Damas Dubs. Did I mention it had rained?

Wild Camp & Scramble in the Carneddau

A wild camp in the shadow of Ysgolion Duon (The Black Ladders) followed by a scramble up Crib Lem Spur then a bimble over the Northern Carneddau. What can go wrong? Well, nothing sinister, but the Northern Carneddau are bigger than you (or rather I) thought. And trekking across thick gorse, heather, bracken, reeds and bog on a hot sunny day from Y Drum to the Sychnant Pass was not our idea of fun! So, having mentioned it, let's talk about what, actually, was fun...

Walking in to Ysgolion Duon, Cwm Llafar, Carneddau

Walking into Ysgolion Duon was painless: we left my friend's house in Bethesda and walked through Gerlan until the road ran out and the paths began. We were welcomed by a friendly Jack Russell as we crossed the paths across fields to the CROW land. We made light work of crossing from the north to the south bank of the Cwm Llafar near the derelict dam. The weather was clear and bright, but humid and warm, making progress slow. We arrived at an adequate camp location a few hundred metres short of the Llech Ddu wall shortly after sunset, but we still had sufficient light to pitch our tents. Having done that, we set up and cooked by a huge boulder half in the Afon Llafar itself: Craig cooked his instant noodles on his solid fuel stove, while I boiled water, poured half of it over instant hot chocolate in my mug, then emptied packets of couscous and instant soup into my pot and let the heat do its work. Eating, waiting for nothing and watching the light fade. We briefly had company from a medium-sized rat: evidence to take even bio-degradable waste (e.g., apple cores) home.

Sunrise on The Llech Ddu wall, Cwm Llafar, Carneddau

In the morning, the clouds were brooding over Carnedd Dafydd. The sun briefly lit up the Walls of the Ladders and Llech Ddu below the clouds, before rising above them to re-establish the humidity. A few spots of rain indicated that now was the time to move, so we dismantled and packed up and made our way up the path to Crib Lem.

The scramble itself was uneventful but very entertaining, as Crib Lem so often is. The exposure was there as usual, especially with the cloud level well above the peaks. The wind was kind to us, allowing me to walk down most of the slab pitch, and the rain remained at bay, making the rock warm and dry and easy to negotiate.

Craig at the top of the slab, Crib Lem Spur, Carnedd Dafydd, Carneddau

Once on the top, we paused briefly to absorb the hazy view across Ogwen Valley to Tryfan, the Glyderau and the Snowdon Horseshoe. We then made our way toward and down the Bwlch Cyfrwyw-Drum, blatantly aware that the horrible slog  up Llewellyn lay ahead of us. Resigned to the misery, we picked a conversational pace and plodded and chatted on. Surprisingly, this tactic rendered the ascent impotent and time passed unnoticeably as we occupied our minds with inconsequential discussion.

Following a brief pause at the top of Llewellyn, we gained speed down toward and across Foel Grach and Carnedd Gwenllian (Uchaf, recently renamed after the only true Princess of Wales), pausing slightly while I dropped my bag to properly claim the "summit". That done and heading across to Foel Fras, we chose a more direct route than the frequented path with the intention of hitting Bwlch y Gwryd more quickly. The tedium of the route had begun to set in, and we were just trying to get to the car at the other end!

Shortly after arriving at the Bwlch, we stopped before the top of Y Drum for a short rest and refreshment. The once clear valley of Afon Anafon was now filled with sea fog, the southwest-bound ocean cloud battling against the prevailing north-westerly winds, and losing, making great swirls of vapour in the sky. But soon, as we summited Y Drum, the fog was winning: a chance to practice some poor-visibility navigation! Craig and I pulled out our maps and compasses and measured paces to cairns, fences, corners and any feature we could find on the map. This exercise enlivened our journey for the better until the fog cleared as we headed down Drosgl toward Bwlch Y Ddeufaen.

Sea fog versus wind: wind winning! Y Drum, Carneddau

And from here (as I began) was where the tedium set in. Variable fog, heat, humidity; no more accessible water; and a flat but heavily vegetated trudge toward the Sychnant Pass. At least we can say we've done it. I don't think I'll be doing it again in a hurry though!

Route map, from Bethesda to Sychnant Pass over the Carneddau View Larger Map