Approaching Hopegill head
from the Whiteside, fresh snow kicks up and sails north off the ridge. The wind
is smooth and is pouring over Grassmoor like champagne foam. My legs begin to
tire but I resolve not to break stride until the summit but then instantly do.
Marching now, looking around more readily and the triangle of Grisedale Pike
feels for a moment implausible.
Before I finish that thought
I’m descending, choosing light snow on scree over tussocks and drifts. The col
was lower than I recall and colder than the tops. Quickly onwards, easing
through the flattened v that separates Crag Hill from Grassmoor. It’s a wind
tunnel this morning and my eyes water as I bend forward into a slow jog across
compacted snow.
Wandhope can be avoided so I
do, staying low and close to the craggy southern face of Grassmoor. Thoughts
drift back to warmer days here, to the Buttermere Horseshoe race and an
afternoon amongst migrating butterflies. I stop dreaming once I hit the short
climb to the summit of Whiteless Pike. Suddenly the Alps appear and startle me
in a way that only mountains can, surely we need a word for this? Buttermere
and Crummock water glint below, the Scafells, Gable and Pillar tower over a
black Haystacks. High stile cowers in their presence, cloud glues to Gable like
moss and, as always, Mellbreak sits still, untouched by drama, squat and silent
like a camel at rest.
The descent to Buttermere is
fast and grassy, thoughts bounce like road chippings behind.
