Issue #90 A Failed Summit Attempt
Was it still worth it?
It started as any walk should, with the discovery that the entire contents of my Kleen Kanteen flask had emptied itself inside my rucksack. My jacket, gloves and everything else I knew I would need that day were drenched in coffee.
How can the smell of freshly made coffee be so delightful, yet the smell of coffee when spilled or when stale be so gross?
Perhaps I should have heeded this as a sign of things to come.
Our plan had been to hike to the top of Mellbreak, a lonely looking peak that stands in isolation on the shores of Crummock Water. Although the weather was fine, a keen wind ruffled the surface of the water and we were anticipating a cold summit experience - with no jacket and no gloves, any excitement at the prospect of heading up high began to fade.
Instead of starting straight up the steep scree slope, the most direct line to the top, we decided to skirt around the edge of the lake and approach the summit from behind, delaying our decision as to whether we wanted to head up to the summit at all. Mellbreak is a nice looking mountain from this side, standing tall and distinctly mountain shaped - walking along the path that follows the lake shore, its lower flanks are lined by a small oak woodland and all the way up the northeastern face young oaks, rowans and birches cling to the steep sides, their pale trunks stark and bone-like on mountain side. I wonder how it was that these trees were able to escape the marauding mouths of sheep - a deliberate conservation effort? Or some chance lapse in grazing just long enough to allow Nature to get a foothold? If I allow myself to dwell on this for too long, I become angry at the devastation wrought upon the fells by overgrazing. How did we let this happen? Now we continue to accept that our mountains must be bereft of life in the name of tradition. Just because something has been done for a long time doesn't make it inherently good or just.
I wonder at what other people see and feel. Where is the collective sense of outrage from the outdoor community that our mountains and are so void of life? Does anyone else even notice?
The light is golden as the sun just clears the tops of the hills, its beams pour through the soft haze between clefts in the rock. We walk into light, squinting, shielding our eyes from the glare with our hands. As the path dips we are sheltered from the wind and for the first time in a long time we feel the warmth of the sun on our faces. I allow the warm glow to wash over my rage and breathe deeply with my eyes closed. Peace. The warmth stirs flying insects, swarms of them hang in clouds along the path - I don’t know who they are, some kind of midge I would guess - and we have to hold our breath to avoid swallowing them. It is good to see and hear the buzz of life.
After a while we leave the lake shore, heading towards the gently sloping southern ridge of Mellbreak and into the shadow of the surrounding mountains. It is cold in the shade and we have been going slower than normal. Benji is suddenly in a bad mood; he is 8 years old and seems to be feeling a lot of big feelings that he can’t explain and that we don’t understand and he decides that a 2.5 hour walk in either direction away from the car would be a good place to let them all out. The decision is made for us - the summit will have to wait for another day. It takes a while to defuse the situation and we are not sure whether to go back the way we came or to try and salvage the day by completing a circular route around the base of the mountain. There is some confusion. We take one path and then turn back and take another.
Hiking with Benji has brought us a lot of joy - he is confident in the mountains and will happily walk 20km in a day with barely a complaint when he is feeling good. We are proud of him and of us for all we have together. He has been on all our hikes and adventures with us since day one, from multi-day hikes on the High Coast of Sweden to wild camping in Scotland and of course many miles and Wainwrights here in the Lake District. It has not always been easy though; we have had many small battles along the way as we try to stick to what we believe is a good way to live and a good way for him to be raised. As he gets older, we are fighting with ever growing competing influences - his friends who do not engage with the outdoors, school, a tsunami of entertainment designed to shorten attention spans and drive kids away from the awe and wonder of Nature and inwards towards tiny glowing screens. More than ever we have to cherish each small joy and not allow ourselves to be defeated by the bad bits, which easier said than done. I wonder for how long will we be able to do this for together? What will we do if not this?
Tears and shouting and hugs later, all is calm. We take a detour to look at a pretty waterfall and then carry on a short way to find a good spot to eat lunch. A small rocky outcrop gives us some shelter from the wind and we eat our meagre supplies; we had not planned on being on out so long. In another reality, we would have been back for lunch in the pub, our hearts and bodies gladdened by another successful summit.
This side of the fell is not nearly as interesting; the steep, craggy outcrops covered in heather and dotted with trees are gone, replaced with bare, undulating grassy slopes all around. In the valley there stands a single holly tree - apparently noted for being the only singular tree to be marked on an OS Map - it looks at odds in its otherwise bare surroundings, artificial, almost. I couldn't find any history about the holly, no explanation of its origins. Is it a lone remnant from a more wooded time in the valley? Was it planted in isolation and singularly guarded from grazing? I do not know. I did come across several glowing reviews of encounters with this tree, but to me it seemed forlorn and lonely, a depressing totem of the relationship between humans and the rest of Nature.
We continue our journey by completing a circular route around the base of Mellbreak, the path is easy going, sloping gently downhill and we walk quickly towards our goal, relieved to be near the end of a weird day.
Although things didn't go exactly according to plan, there is always something good to take from a day spent outside, in this case the beautiful golden light, the first feeling of warmth laden with the promise of more to come and the pleasant aching of leg muscles that comes from having walked a long way, the satisfaction of knowing you have done a good thing for mind and body. Was it worth it? Almost certainly.
Well, that’s about all for this week! What this story forgets to mention is that this is actually the SECOND time we have failed to make it up to the top of Mellbreak, despite its modest size, the first time being on account of my injured hand. I think we’ll leave it a while before we try again…
With warm wishes,
Andrew, Emma and Benji
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Sounds like a good day despite turning back.
For me, I’d also include time spent together as a big plus. My kids are grown now and living in different parts of the world. I remember when I was a young parent and always being told to appreciate the time spent with them when they were young. I always nodded and knew the advice was good, but it wasn’t until recent years until I truly appreciated it.
Thanks for sharing your story
I think the adventure is always worth it, even when it does not go as planned. And, I believe you have given Benji a phenomenal foundation. My own kids' interests diverged from mine along the way, and you can't force it when that happens. However, I know for a fact that our early adventures have shaped the rest of their lives in some fundamental way, and I am certain you have already given that to Benji as well!