Striding Edge

Hellvellyn isn’t a lofty peak. At 3,117 feet (950 meters) above sea level, it isn’t even the highest in the English Lakes. When I walk up my stairs at home, I’m climbing to a height almost three times as high and Mt. Evans, visible from my back yard and topping out at 14,240 feet (4,340 meters) positively dwarfs it.

So you get the point, it’s not exactly Everest we’re talking about here. Then what brings hikers to Hellvellyn by the thousand, every single year? That would be the view from the top. Located as it is, on the eastern side of the breathtakingly pretty corner of England that is the Lake District, the summit vista looks out across the smaller hills, over the lake known as Ullswater (itself no slouch in the prettiness stakes), and out to the plains of Yorkshire. On the "Wow!" factor, it’s way up there.

Every few years the British summer weather cooperates enough to provide a clear night sky on Midsummer’s Eve and scores of people trek to the top in order to enjoy the (very) early morning sunrise. I did it three times in my life; once as a kid with my parents, the second two fueled by a gallon or so of Guinness from the pub prior to setting out. The sunrise turns the mountains from black to purple, while Ullswater glints like a pool of mercury in the foreground. Each time it was magical and if the person, who has the photographs I took the last time, and subsequently lost, is reading this, I’d very much like them back.

Back when I lived in the Lakes, I covered many, although not all of the peaks. In addition to the night-time jaunts, I tackled Hellvellyn several times during daylight hours and enjoyed each one but one thing I never attempted, was the route known as “Striding Edge”. So when Steve suggested it during my visit, I jumped at the chance. Graeme decided to tag along too and as the three of us spent a good chunk of our formative years in each others’ company; it was just like old times.

Striding Edge didn’t get its name because one can "stride" along it. One would be very ill advised to do so, even if one were physically capable, which one is almost certainly not. No, the term "Striding" in this sense, means "To Stand Astride". In other words, you can put one foot on each side of the knife-edge ridge. What makes Striding Edge different from other ridgeline paths is not only is it a very rocky scramble, but that if you were to stand upon it, and take a good look around, you would see nothing but fresh air.

The ground sweeps away dramatically on both sides and as the path itself is something of a hand over hand scramble, this is not a good hike for a windy day, or for someone afraid of heights, or open spaces, or anyone with balance issues. Nonetheless, each year several nutmegs give it a go and the mountain rescue teams are used to scraping people off the rocks below.

It wasn’t at all windy when we set off from the town of Glenridding, around mid-morning. The day was warm and a shade muggy, which made me feel ever so glad I’d accidentally left my shorts up in Scotland ad was tackling the hike in jeans. I was also a shade concerned at how hard I was blowing during the early stages. What’s all this about living at altitude and reaping the benefits when descending to lower elevation? I consoled myself with the thought that I had got pretty hammered while watching the European Championship (real football) in the pub the night before and that once I sweated the stale beer out of my pores, all would be well.

And indeed it was. By the time we’d stopped for the first bite of our packed lunches and had admired the view for the umpteenth time, I was raring to go. Striding Edge doesn’t arrive until you’re tantalizingly close to the top and when you see it for the first time, it’s with a "Crap, is that where we’re going?" feeling.

"Scary is good" said Steve as a rejoinder to Graeme’s and my whining, uhm astute observations. And that’s true enough – in the right circumstances. On a roller coaster perhaps, or during a horror movie. I just didn’t happen to think that balanced on a rock with nothing but hundreds of feet down on either side was not the right circumstances and each time my sweaty jeans clung to my leg and prevented me from gaining the inch or so I needed to complete the step onto the next rock, I had reason to reflect on this.

Steve on the other hand, was more concerned about his wee dog, scampering along excitedly on the end of its lead. "My wife doesn’t care about me" he explained, "But if I lose the dog, I might as well not go home." Graeme was something of a concern too, being considerably older than Steve and I. (Almost a year older than me and several weeks ahead of Steve) but the decrepit old codger seemed to be doing OK.

It didn’t help that we got stuck in a traffic jam of sorts, behind two ladies who really had no business being up there in the first place. While it was sensible tactics to consider foot placement in advance of each step, this pair were deliberating to a level that would make a Bedouin camel trader weep. I’m not known for my patience at the best of times and I’d already considered a hundred ways to "accidentally" push them down one side or the other but, aware that the two guys watching from up ahead were not only with them, but both bigger than me, I chose not to. See me? See karma points?

Finally, we were able to wiggle past them and in a surprisingly short time were standing atop the summit. A couple of dozen other people were up here already but as most of them had come up the easy way from the west side (hah!), they were of no concern to us. It was cool up here, causing sweatshirts and woolly pullys to be removed from the daypacks and we had to find some shelter from the wind before finishing lunch. And the haze in the valleys meant the view wasn’t quite as crisp as we’d hoped. But it was still pretty darn good for all that.

By the time Midsummer's Eve rolled around this year, I was firmly ensconced back in the States. Views to the east of here look out over the city, and rather than the plains of Yorkshire in the distance, we have the prairie stretching all the way to the Great Lakes, a thousand miles away. I didn't climb a hilltop this year but I did spend some time reflecting on my previous night hikes up Hellvellyn. I wonder if I'll ever do that again.

One thing's for sure though - if I do climb it in the dark, it won't be up Striding Edge.