Tag: buttermere edge

Disclaimer: Walking the 214 Wainwrights of the Lake District National Park is not on my list of fifty things to do before I turn fifty years old, but it might appear on a second list: Sixty to 60.

The Buttermere Edge, consisting of High Crag, High Stile and Red Pike, was my first foray into the fells in 2025 and, bearing in mind how late in the year we are, probably one of my last. Having been away from Lakeland for so long, I was really looking forward to getting up high again.

The day began in Carlisle, at my mother’s house, but two bus journeys later, with a combined cost of only six pounds, I was in the village of Buttermere. Originally, my plan for these three fells was to ascend via High Crag and descend via Red Pike, but most articles and videos had people going up Red Pike and descending via High Crag, mainly because of the difficulty of descending the scree path of Red Pike. Plans accordingly changed, I walked from the village to the bottom of the path up Red Pike, only to find a notice saying that the path was closed until mid-October due to a rockfall. Written in red letters were the words, “There is no alternative route.” Foiled!

Undeterred, I decided to go back to my original plan and ascend High Crag; if necessary, I would go over to Red Pike, turn around and return by the same route. Off I went, along the path that follows the western shores of Buttermere, and it wasn’t long before I stopped to take a photograph.

Moving on, my route took me along the lakeside path before ascending to Scarth Gap. From there, I turned towards the north-west, ascending Seat, a non-Wainwright which was big enough and difficult enough to make me forget that I wasn’t on High Crag and, therefore, I experienced my first false summit of the day. A false summit is always a bit of a disappointment, but any disappointment was soon forgotten when I saw High Crag looming over me.

“You,” I said out loud, “are a beast of a mountain.”

And I meant it. This is the only time in my life where I have looked at a fell and felt intimidated by it. A steep, stony path looked down at me, a path that seemed to get steeper and steeper as the mountain grew higher and higher. A tough test was ahead of me. Time for a quick snack, me thinks.

Fuelled afresh, I began my ascent. What a slog! It was hard work, but, on this clearest of clear days, the views were more than worth it. Even at nearly two and half thousand feet, it was feeling warm, with only a very subtle breeze giving some welcome relief to my overheated body.

From High Crag, the ridge walk across to High Stile and on to Red Pike was relatively easy, with my first ever view of Ennerdale to the west and the even more beautiful Rannerdale to the east making it a truly pleasurable experience. Then the … er … ‘fun’ began.

On top of High Stile, I met two separate people who had both ascended the scree of Red Pike and both of them said that the path up was fine. While I was going up High Crag, I had thought that I didn’t really want to have to descend that way if I could help it, so the news that the path was apparently open and negotiable was music to my ears. No need to retrace my steps: down the scree I would go!

This is the most scared that I can ever remember feeling on a mountain. Having spent most of the day with a trekking pole in each hand, I abandoned the sticks after only a few seconds as it was clear to me that I would probably be better off with my hands free. Crouching down in an attempt to lower my centre of gravity and make myself more stable, I started carefully down the scree. Very carefully. Very cautiously. One tiny step at a time. Until I started to slide.

I have slid and skidded on downward paths in the Lake District before today, but not like this. When I have slid in the past, by the time I’ve registered what is happening, I’ve already stopped. Not too scary. This time, it was longer. It was probably less than two seconds, maybe even one, but it was still long enough for the words ‘plummet,’ ‘to’ and ‘death’ to come to mind. A bit of a dramatic response, I know, but in times of crisis I tend to skip past fight or flight syndrome and go straight to my inner thespian. Somehow, it works for me.

A few bum scrapes later, with Red Pike well and truly behind me, I made my way up the short path to the top of Dodd, a non-Wainwright fell that stands at 2,103 feet and offers amazing panoramic views of Rannerdale. Why Wainwright didn’t include this fell in his list is a mystery to me as its vantage point alone merits a place in any list, but who am I to argue with the master?

One of the two who I had met on the tops had told me that they had come up the path on the north side of Dodd, over the “marshy bit.” Remembering the sign at the bottom of the path to the south side of Dodd, I headed to the north side and squelched and splashed my way down what seemed like a surprisingly difficult descent. About halfway down, I passed through a gap in a wall and entered Burtness Wood, still a bit squelchy in places, loosely following Near Ruddy Beck down to the valley floor on the south-west shore of Crummock Water. From there, as the sun was dipping behind the fells, it was an easy walk to the youth hostel in Buttermere, where I would hopefully get a good night’s sleep in preparation for my next adventure.