We drove the short distance up the hill from our camping spot to Whinlatter Forest Park and started on the Altura North trail, a 6-mile loop graded red (“difficult”). A fairly arduous climb with a few exposed sections rewarded us with a stunning view of the surrounding mountains and forest, then we descended through the trees along a good (if slightly wet) singletrack trail with flowing berms, technical rooty sections and some slippery rocky corners. The last part was one of the best bits of trail I’ve ever come across – a big switchback section down a flowing gravel track with a thrillingly steep drop on one side and quick berms, which gave little margin for error.
Exhilarated by the long, fast descent, we started off on the Altura South loop, which was 5.5 miles long and also graded red. Like the North loop, this started with a wooded climb which led to some lovely downhill sections with jumps, technical features and smooth, flowing bits, although nothing quite compared to the last section of the North loop.
Ryan’s knees were still suffering from our 12-hour hike a few days before, but for completeness we finished with the Quercus trail – a 4.5 mile blue (“moderate”) loop. It was certainly more easygoing but definitely worth doing, with some lovely open sections and smooth bits of singletrack.
Although my experience is limited to just a handful of purpose-built MTB trails, those at Whinlatter are without doubt some of the best I’ve done. I wrote about them previously (see blog post) as I’ve been once before, but then I didn’t have time for the Altura South and I was extremely keen to go back. All three trails are very well-maintained, offer stunning views of the surrounding mountains, valleys and forests, and provide an exciting variety of tough climbs, technical features and fast, flowing downhill. A great morning, and a great outing for my trusty but battered 2008 Specialized Rockhopper, Rocky.
Derwentwater canoeing
We wanted to make the most of the day, so after a quick snack we headed down to Derwentwater and hired a two-person canoe from the marina. I’d never canoed before and Ryan had only been once, but we were soon paddling merrily along. The single oar took a bit of getting used to as opposed to a double-ended kayak paddle, as did the synchronised manoeuvring, but it was good fun and we stayed surprisingly dry. I learnt that the back person follows the stroke of the front person and steers by angling/dragging their oar, and the front person paddles along, humming obliviously and swapping the oar from left to right and vice versa as and when they fancy. Or that’s how we did it, anyway.
We had two hours, which was enough time to paddle anti-clockwise around about half of Derwentwater. It’s a large lake with several wooded islands, one or two big enough for a posh house and others no bigger than a car bonnet, which is surrounded on all sides by high, majestic peaks. Halfway round we approached a medium-sized island, admiring how we could see the smooth, brown pebbles several feet below through the clear water, and beached the canoe on a bank that was lush with overhanging foliage. The island was deserted, although people had clearly lit campfires between the tall trees in the middle, and we enjoyed a Thatchers Haze each before paddling on. On our way back to the marina we were treated to a fly-by from a fighter jet, a couple of carrier planes and a helicopter.
Satisfied with the day’s activities, we drove the short distance back to Keswick and found ourselves back in the Wetherspoons (as a trainee lawyer, I consider additional time spent in an old courthouse building invaluable experience). We agreed to climb Corvus the next day (see previous day’s post for background), drove along Derwentwater’s east bank back into the beautiful Borrowdale valley, and camped in a discrete layby.
I peeked under the pull-down blind to take in the tranquility of early morning in Honister Pass. The sky was clear and the sun had drenched half the valley side in its balmy warmth. I waited for Ryan to wake up (I’m definitely more of a morning person), then we ate and drove up the steep “head end” of the pass. The road that joins the Buttermere and Borrowdale valleys is winding, hilly and incredibly scenic.
We parked at Thorneythwaite Farm, put £3 in the honesty box and headed up to the crag. We’d hoped to climb Corvus, a famous five pitch route graded Diff (easy) either today or tomorrow, but thought we’d check out the nearer Glaciated Slab at Combe Gill to begin with. There were a handful of single-pitch climbs there, which would be good for warming up our trad climbing brains after months of covid-induced abstinence. Given Monday’s epic hike, we also wanted to test Ryan’s still-sore knees before committing to a multipitch.
The walk in to the crag took about half an hour and the last section involved an awkward scramble up a steep boulderfield. Glaciated Slab was worth it, with its agreeable, off-vertical gradient, grippy looking rock and handful of cracks. It was quiet and wild, situated high up on one side of a steep, V-shaped valley, carpeted on both sides by scrubby grass, dark green forest and a litany of loose rocks. To our right Derwentwater peeked distantly through the trough of the “V”, backed by the hazy blue mountains beyond Keswick.
Our Rockfax climbing book informed us that all but two routes were within our grade, so we hoped to get a good few climbs in. Keen to feel cold rock under our fingers, we dropped bags and harnessed up. Ry started by leading Trod Too Far (HS 4b), then I led Trod Pip (VS 4c), then we took turns crossing off whatever we fancied. It had been over a year (tragically) since I last built a three-piece top anchor, but I was pleased that it came back so naturally. I didn’t have to think about the process of placing and testing gear, clipping in, equalising the sling and bringing the rope up to put Ryan on belay.
The rock was grippy, nicely cracked in some places and a bit bare in others, and it felt so solid that we threw in a couple of solo climbs (Diff/VDiff). I felt the old, toe-tingling thrill of looking down at the distant ground and accepting that up is the only option. After a good few hours climbing, we decided that we’d exhausted that crag and scrambled/walked back down the valley, returning to the van about 5pm.
We drove north along the pretty Borrowdale road to Keswick, on the north tip of Derwentwater, grabbed some supplies from the Co-op, and wandered round the pretty, bustling town. Before we knew it, we found ourselves in Wetherspoons. We discussed our plan to go mountain biking the next day over a pint and three small plates for £10 (every time), then hopped back in the van and drove up the road towards Whinlatter Forest Park. We found a discrete car park, went for a quick walk up a hill overlooking Keswick and chilled in the van for the rest of the evening, basking in the happy-exhausted feeling that comes after a good day’s climbing.
We’d hoped to finish the previous day’s epic hike in the Wasdale Head Inn, a classic climber/hiker’s pub at the end of Wasdale valley’s dead end road, but our late return thwarted this plan so it was first on Tuesday’s itinerary. We woke later than usual from our camping spot on the edge of Wast Water and enjoyed a pint in the lovely old pub, which is decorated with cool old mountainey pictures and maps. A sign states emphatically that there’s no wifi and that we should talk to each other instead, which I liked – although it would have been useful to let Ryan’s dad (who’d followed yesterday’s progress live until my phone died) know that we’re alive as there’s zero phone signal in the valley.
The most frog-like photo of me ever taken but it kind of shows the Wasdale Head Inn
We were suffering from mobility issues due to seized quadriceps and in Ryan’s case, potentially damaged knee ligaments/cartilage, so didn’t expect to do anything remarkable that day. We’d studied our climbing guidebooks in the pub at Wasdale and had decided to travel to the Borrowdale Valley to mess around at Raven crag and climb Corvus, a famous multipitch route graded Diff. The drive up the northwest side of the National Park felt a bit adminney in the middle of the day, but we’d planned well as in contrast to yesterday’s generally dry, clear weather, it was now wet and claggy.
Mountains, lakes and forests reappeared as we headed east through Buttermere, an area I’d never visited before. It was serene and beautiful, even under the grey sky. We went to Buttermere village for lunch and found the Bridge Hotel, a nice whitewashed, beamed, stone-floored bar, but it was eerily quiet and the whole facemasked waiter, disposable menu thing seemed a bit awkward. Ryan spotted a couple of big cherry trees out the window and we filled our pockets with juicy red snacky-snacks, then set off east to get closer to tomorrow’s climbing spot. The cherries didn’t make it to our next camping spot at Honister Pass.
Honister Pass is a winding road through a deep slate valley – the type you get on car adverts – which rises gradually as it runs parallel to a wide, shallow river, then steeply. After a brief stop to let the engine cool down (steep slopes set the overheating alarm off) we parked in a pull-in a couple of hundred metres down the road from Honister slate mine, high up at the head of the valley and overlooking the long road which snakes between its V-shaped sides. To my frustration we found a gash in the front passenger side tyre, probably caused by a sharp bit of slate. We changed the wheel and spent the evening admiring the sweeping, rock-strewn valley, drinking gin, cooking pasta, singing badly and looking down the picturesque road at a stunning, pink-orange sunset. Today had been quiet but we were happy knowing that tomorrow, we would climb.
This was one of those rare days that I know for certain I’ll never forget. It started innocuously enough, with Ryan cooking breakfast and me making sandwiches at our camping spot on the edge of Wast Water, overlooked by the rugged, imposing mountains and ridges of the Wasdale valley. We knew it’d be a long one as our route encompassed six summits, a lot of miles and a serious amount of elevation gain. Bags packed and bodies fuelled, we drove to the car park at Wasdale Head and set off at 10am.
Scafell Pike, 978m. Summited 11:55
The path began in the lowest point of the valley, just 80m above sea level. It crossed a wide, shallow river, Lingmell Beck, before climbing a little way up the side of a high, grassy ridge, Lingmell. It followed the contour of this ridge through scrubby sheep territory until we rounded the corner, at which point the sheer, dark west face of Scafell Pike emerged at the head of an immense valley. Lingmell Gill flowed high and fast on our right and we followed the path alongside it until the rocky crossing, which wasn’t particularly crossable due to the rainfall. A few hikers had gone quite a way upstream before crossing and heading back down to regain the path, but we didn’t go far before hopping across five or six sturdy-ish looking rocks in an ungainly (but dry) manner and continuing up the mountain.
The rocky path led the way clearly up Brown Tongue which, as well as the multitude of other hikers and my vague memory of the route, made the map redundant for the time being. We took the left fork and approached the summit from its northwest side, the slightly longer but more popular approach. From the fork, going as the crow flies to the summit would have necessitated a serious multipitch rock climb up its ominously sheer west face, which gives the mountain its wild, dangerous appearance.
Our legs were already feeling slightly sore from flying up and down the Old Man of Coniston (803m) the previous day, and I’d forgotten that although popular, the path up Scafell Pike is surprisingly long and steep. Shortly after taking the fork we were hit by a sudden heavy rainshower, which – as they always are, once you’ve committed to getting wet – was exhilarating. We pulled waterproofs on, snapped a couple of pictures and carried on, turning right up the steep, scree-covered path that leads to the summit. The clouds were stubborn but intermittent, and we had our fill of the stunning, rolling mountain scenery in glimpses as we made our way up.
The top section is pretty much a huge pile of jagged rocks, as if the tip of the mountain has been shattered into millions of pieces. At the summit is a trig point and a raised war memorial, and we delighted at being the highest two people on English soil for a minute before finding a sheltered spot for a sandwich. Although perfectly warm when we were moving, our sweaty backs got cold quite quickly in the bitter mountain wind so we took a compass bearing to ensure we were heading for Great End and descended the awkwardly boulder-strewn, loose northeast side of Scafell Pike.
Great End, 910m. Summited 13:06
The cloud subsided when we reached the trough of the col between Scafell Pike and Broad Crag, the mini-top just before Great End. The path to Great End was fairly steep and quite direct, although when it came to branching off the path towards Esk Pike for the actual summit Ryan took us an unecessarily awkward way over a series of rocks. We pulled out the Jetboil and had a brew at the wind shelter on the summit, wondered at the panoramic views and seemingly endless mountains and descended the proper way back to the main path.
Esk Pike, 885m. Summited 14:02
Esk Pike wasn’t easily discernible as the ground on the east of Scafell Pike is all quite high and the rocky ridges and summits seem to merge together. Experience has taught me to be wary of paths as they often look obvious on a map, but much less so on rocky ground where everything is the same colour, and it was around this point that I commented on how the path thus far was suspiciously clear and well-marked by plenty of cairns.
Bowfell, 902m. Summited 14:47
Next up was Bowfell, which had a more obvious summit as there was a group of people having lunch on it. For some reason I remember the scenery here being particularly unforgettable, even though we’d been fortunate enough to have a clear view of the surrounding mountains since before Great End.
The nearer peaks were rugged and olive green, and all had unique shapes with sides that occasionally fell away to reveal sheer, unvegetated rock faces. They weren’t jagged like the gargantuan mountains of Patagonia or the Himalayas – in fact they’re not even comparable – but they had their own wild, majestic kind of beauty. Rivers ran like tiny veins far below in the steep-sided valleys, some so perfectly U-shaped it was as if they were carved out with a giant ice cream scoop, and the mountains further away glowed in mysterious, hazy layers of grey-blue. This is perhaps what I love most about the Lake District: it’s the only place in England where I feel truly immersed in the mountains. I can’t imagine how incredible it must have been up here before hiking became popular and there were no paths scratched into the surface or bright down jackets pock-marking the wilderness.
Crinkle Crags, 859m. Summited 15:51
Crinkle Crags was a bit disheartening because gaining the summit would mean scrambling up a rocky path a kilometre long, starting at the unimaginatively named Three Tarns, only to scramble back down the same way and continue our route. Ry insisted that he wanted to do it despite his knee hurting a little, so we went up the now-elusive path-come-series of rocky scrambles and after what seemed like an age, arrived at the (also unimaginatively named) Pile of Stones marking the summit.
This is where the real fun started (English for where it all went wrong). We looked across two wide valleys towards Sca Fell and it looked terrifyingly far away, leering at us from the horizon. Ryan suggested that if we descend Crinkle Crags off-piste, we should hit the footpath we were aiming for low down in the first valley which would take us parallel to and then across a river, and we would then walk [a really long way] to the base of Sca Fell on flat terrain. This would remove the need to turn back along the annoyingly rocky and long path we’d just come along. He was correct and I agreed – indeed, we should have hit that footpath by the river.
The descent was pretty sketchy, super-steep and more of a downclimb in places via huge boulders, mini waterfalls and loose, scrubby bits of ground. We were careful not to disturb vegetation, rocks or sheep, and although I was inwardly questioning our decision, it was kind of thrilling to be off the beaten track. I was super happy to discover some bilberry bushes (bilberries are like small, sweet wild blueberries) as I’d always wanted to find some but never had before, so my fruity mid-descent snack perked me up.
The Trough, 350m ish
This section deserves its own sub-heading because it would unfair (on the mountain) to attribute it to a mountain. It was a trough in both senses of the word – the low bit between peaks, and a sustained dip in the extent to which the hike was going as planned. As they say, peaks and troughs.
After what seemed like an age we reached the bottom of the treacherous descent down Crinkle Crags, only to discover that the footpath we had hoped to join was untrodden to the point of non-existence. Instead we were met by soft, tufty, awkward ground covered in long, yellow grass. In the absence of a path and an obvious place to cross Lingcove Beck, we looked at the map and decided that the best course of action would be to walk south parallel to the river until we came to the fork, where we would join another path that runs alongside the other branch – the River Esk – to the base of Sca Fell. It would extend our route by a couple of long, slow miles over difficult terrain, but at least we’d be certain of where we are and that we could cross both rivers.
This was frustrating enough, so when my left foot punched through a hole in the ground and into over-the-top-of-my-boot deep muddy water, I became tetchy. After a couple of hundred metres of tramping with one wet foot through boggy ground in an exasperated sulk, it dawned on me that I’d only eaten half a sandwich, half a bag of mini cheddars, an apple, half a flapjack and a few bilberries. We wanted to press on but I self-diagnosed myself as hangry, so we stopped and munched a whole sandwich each. It tasted incredible and I perked up magnificently.
We maintained our course by keeping Lingcove Beck on our right hand side, which took a long time because of the awkward, soggy ground, occasionally picking up scraps of what looked like they could once have been path. Eventually we reached a stone bridge at the fork we were aiming for, glad to finally cross the river and start walking towards, rather than away from, Sca Fell. This time we kept the River Esk on our left, relieved that we were now following a clear path.
The first bit was steep, then it levelled out and we walked for a mile or so across a great, open plain in the belly of the valley between the towering ridges. The path was better than the previous one although ambiguous in places, so we kept a close eye on the map, noting the shape of the river, the contours around us and the bits of drystone wall marked down as boundaries. Unhelpfully, the path disappeared at the river crossing. We’d hoped for some rudimentary stepping stones, but there was nothing. The river was about eight paces wide and higher and faster than usual, and we followed it upstream in search of a way across for 20 minutes or so. Eventually we accepted that our feet were wet anyway and committed to a crossing place that was far from ideal but slightly less terrible than some other places and hopped across.
Sca Fell, 964m. Summited 20:17
We tramped across pathless ground to a long waterfall leading up Sca Fell, which was a mile away as the crow flies. The next section was a steep scramble up a dubiously labelled footpath, keeping the waterfall/river on our left. It was tough going but good to gain height as it made us feel closer to finishing the day. We got to a crossing place and stopped to make a decision. We could either cross the river and approach Sca Fell from the south, carry on along the clear path and approach it from the west – which would mean branching off left and going up and down the same way – or call it a day and continue on the same path, which would take us safely through the col between Sca Fell and Scafell Pike and back to the van, potentially with time for a drink in the pub.
We were tired, hungry and at risk of losing light, but stubbornness prevailed and we crossed the narrow, rushing river, hopeful of completing a circular route up and down the mountain. It looked as if there was a path on the other side, but this quickly disappeared and we were once again tramping through the wilderness. We knew the approximate direction of Sca Fell and we knew we had to do a lot more “up”, so we made a beeline for a high, steep scree slope on our right hand side.
This was one of the crippling low points of the day. The terrain was very rough (scrubby vegetation interspersed with loose rocks), we were exhausted, our phones were nearly dead, the summit was an uncertain, invisible concept beyond a serious amount of elevation gain on poor ground and there was a real risk that we’d lose daylight. We had everything we needed – headtorches, an emergency bivvy shelter, warm clothes, foil blankets and porridge – but we were damp, hungry and determined to get back to the van.
On either side of the scree slope were high rock faces and from a distance it looked as though a figure of a person was suspended from one of them. At first it looked like someone leaning back and taking a photo of something higher up, then it looked like a climber who had reached the top of a route, then it looked like someone hanging there eerily limp, as if they’d fallen and been caught by the rope. It’s funny how the mind plays tricks when you’re tired, as it turned out to be just a black, figure-shaped void between two slabs.
The scree slope took forever to reach, and once there it was even more terrible than we thought. I did something very unusual: I pulled out my last-resort snacks, an energy gel each, in a desperate attempt to boost us up the terrifyingly steep ascent. The scree was mostly saucer-to-dinnerplate sized reddish-grey rock, and I was careful not to climb above Ryan as I could have sent a rock tumbling down on him at any time. It took just about all our strength to reach the top, and I was almost too exhausted to feel relieved by the sight of the landscape opening out in front of me as I pulled over the brow.
We turned right and headed along the high ridge, relieved to be on more manageable terrain but uncertain exactly how far it was to the summit. Our phones pinged as we received signal for the first time in a few hours, but we were both on 1% so couldn’t faff around taking photos. The scenery either side of the ridge was beautiful, hazy in the fading light, but we didn’t appreciate it as much as usual. The ground got rockier and we finally came to the pile of stones and crude rock shelter that marks the summit of Sca Fell at 8.17pm. It was a huge relief to finally conquer this last peak, the bleakest and wildest of them all, after it had tormented us for the age that had passed since Crinkle Crags.
Return
It wasn’t over yet as we still needed to get on the path back before losing light. It’s common knowledge among mountaineers that most accidents happen on the way down, so we were careful not to get reckless. We descended down the path north east of the summit, which was once again ridiculously steep but this time marked by the odd cairn. It was a relief to be going down but our knees weren’t having a great time, and we half-slid down the loose slope. The path then bore left at the tiny Foxes Tarn and took us literally down a small river/waterfall, balancing on wet, slippery rock on whichever side of the water looked least treacherous.
Once we were at the bottom, miraculously intact, we munched our last snack bar and looked exasperatedly to our left at the next rocky slope we were required to climb to gain Mickledore, the col between Sca Fell and Scafell Pike. It was almost funny, and we just got on with the slow, awkward drag to the top, trying to keep on the vague, loose, steep, zig-zagging path. My concern was that the path over the col on this side of Scafell Pike wouldn’t be obvious (or even in existence) as I took this route the first time I climbed the mountain in 2014, and I remember scrabbling up a steep, scree-covered slope in claggy conditions following no obvious path and hoping for a cairn to appear through the fog. If this was the case, there was a risk that it’d get too dark to navigate and we’d have to bear a cold, damp, rocky night out.
At last we reached the top of the slope and spotted the emergency metal shelter on the ridge up to Scafell Pike. Its straight sided boxiness looked very strange against the rocky backdrop, having seen nothing but natural, jagged shapes all day. Then we experienced the best feeling in the world: pulling up over the lip of the col at Mickeldore. All of a sudden we could clearly see the path that would lead us back, and my concern evaporated. The world seemed to open out in front of us. We had Sca Fell on our left, Scafell Pike on our right, and in front was the vast valley that we’d hiked up eleven hours earlier. We could see the fork where our footpath met the path that we’d taken left up the other side of Scafell Pike that morning, the sun was low, and there wasn’t another person in sight.
We descended down the steep scree slope (see the pattern emerging?) that was the top of the footpath and gained slightly more level terrain, happy in the knowledge that there was no more up. The sun broke through the hazy clouds and glowed a magnificent, warm orange ahead of us, which illuminated the valley and accentuated the wild beauty of every rough, rocky, rugged corner. It felt like nature’s way of saying well done, you did it. I’ll never, ever forget that moment. The walk back along the strangely solid path was slow and unlike my vivid memories of earlier that day, I remember it vaguely as if it were a dream. We talked all the way back to the van, but I have no idea what we talked about.
We followed the path round to the right at the end of the valley, the same way we’d come up, through the steep sheep fields of Lingmell in dwindling light. We didn’t quite need to pull out the torches because the path was good, but it was dark by the time we reached the flat field and river at the bottom. We got back to the van at 10.30pm, equal parts exhausted, triumphant and famished, drove ten minutes to last night’s camping spot near Wast Water, and didn’t have the energy to cook stir fry so ate tinned soup, bread and cheese. Nothing has ever tasted so good.
We woke up in a quiet layby near Kendal just east of the National Park, having made the 6-hour journey on Friday evening. We did the grocery run in Kendal Morrisons, giddy about the prospect of our first van trip since before lockdown, and drove to Windermere for a poke around.
Windermere was pretty and as we wandered through its neat streets lined with slate-grey buildings, it felt as if the world was tentatively waking up. The pubs and restaurants reopened post-covid for the first time today and there was a quiet bustle about the town, which I expect is usually a bit too touristy. It’s quite small so we weren’t there long before driving down the road to Bowness (definitely too touristy). We walked behind the shops and bars along the edge of Lake Windermere, where geese, pigeons, crows and other annoying types of bird congregated, and looked out over the misty grey water.
We nearly went into a bar for a drink but decided to carry on to Coniston. The half-hour drive via Ambleside (bustling outdoorsey town, will return) gave us our first taste of the narrow, winding Lake District roads, and we parked in our tucked-away camping spot early afternoon. Coniston is a lovely village set against the scenic backdrop of rugged, high fells and we spent the afternoon enjoying our first post-covid pub visit in The Crown, eating fajitas in the van and talking rubbish.
Sunday 5th July – Old Man of Coniston (hiking), Grizedale Forest (mountain biking)
We climbed the Old Man of Coniston (803m) – see a previous post about a previous (solo) hike here -, a lovely mountain which towers over a valley of old copper mines and overlooks a panorama of fells, forests and lakes, its steep, winding path made interesting by the ruins of old mining ruins, long, forearm-thick wire cables and a high, black tarn. The weather was surprisingly clear until about twenty minutes before the summit, when the clouds thickened and the wind picked up. It’s amazing how the weather can change in the mountains – we watched as thick white cloud rolled unstoppably over the summit ridge and down the escarpment, like the froth spilling over the edge of an overpoured pint. At the top Ryan actually grabbed me as a particularly strong gust of wind caught me off balance, sending us into fits of giggles.
It took us two and a half hours’ quick walking there and back along the same path from Coniston (including a couple of stops to snack on the summit, faff around the old slate ruins and scramble down to a crystal clear, waterfall-fed river) and we were pleased that contrary to the forecast, the weather had held up. It looked to worsen that afternoon so we’d planned to do the North Face mountain bike trail (graded red – advanced) at Grizedale Forest, twenty minutes from Coniston.
The bike trail was very technical and very different to others we’ve done. What seemed like more than the first half was uphill, on fairly gradual gradients made complicated by large, sharp rocks protruding at all angles and constantly threatening to throw wheels off the trail or bottom-out the chainring. There was no smooth, flowing downhill, real berms or jumps, but there were quick rocky sections towards the end and it was really enjoyable in a different way – it felt much more “raw” and rugged, which was exacerbated by the fact that we didn’t see another person on the trail. Surrounded by an untamed melee of firs, ferns, grasses and foxgloves, with the occasional clearing showing off the magnificent mountainscape behind the dark, glassy Coniston Water, it felt like wild, “proper” mountain biking.
Soaked, muddied and elated, we loaded the van and drove an hour-and-a-half to Wasdale Head. That evening we planned a (really) long hike for the next day and went to bed blissfully unaware of the epic that was to follow. I’m still gathering up the energy to write about it…
A couple of weeks ago Ryan and I took five days’ annual leave with the hope of taking the van up to the Lake District. Unfortunately lockdown rules still prevented overnight stays, so we decided to make the most of some local adventures.
Saturday – MTB, Swinley Forest
Saturday morning saw us up bright and early to try the mountain biking trails at Swinley Forest, Berkshire. We went with Ryan’s brother Adam and Ryan’s new bike, which deserves a mention as he treats it like a second girlfriend (I think I’ve been subtly usurped).
It was well worth the hour-and-a-quarter drive from Hill HQ. We did the first half of the blue trail, then the whole red trail, then the second half of the blue to end up back where we started. The blue is 6.25 miles in total and the red 8 miles. Like most purpose-built trails, each is broken up into sections of varying difficulty and length, which meant there were ample opportunities to stop and gabble excitedly about how we nearly hit that tree, overshot that berm or slid out on that corner.
The trails are mostly quick singletrack through mixed forest, with plenty of lovely, sweeping berms, technical rooty sections and smooth jumps (not that I’ve learnt to actually jump yet). There are plenty of exciting downhill bits, but strangely it doesn’t feel like you’re spending much time going uphill. I might do a more detailed post another day, but overall this was definitely, definitely, definitely a place to return to.
We nipped in to visit my parents in Alresford on the way back to Hill HQ and spent the evening drinking cider. Day 1 – great success.
Sunday – Hiking, New Forest
We had a chilled morning sprawled over a map in the garden planning the upcoming week, then went for a walk from Telegraph Hill car park on the Roger Penny way. We headed south into a lovely ancient woodland in search of the site of a Royal Hunting Lodge, tramping between the vast old oaks and beeches whose leaves glowed bright green in the sun. We could hear a beehive high up in the trees and the foxgloves grew above my head, and there was nobody around – we could have travelled back in time a thousand years without knowing. The site was just a small clearing in the trees with a slightly raised mound around the edge, and we poked around before heading back to pack for the next day.
Monday and Tuesday – Bikepacking, New Forest
Unsurprisingly, bikepacking is backpacking on a bike. Our first bikepacking expedition took us on a meticulously planned route across the New Forest via gravel tracks, bridleways, the odd road section and the occasional resort to “as the crow flies” navigation through woods, thicket and bog.
We started at Hill HQ in Fordingbridge and travelled southeast, ending up in Beaulieu on the opposite side of the National Park after a great day of cycling on variable terrain through variable scenery. Highlights include a Portugese fireplace, trailblazing through wild, scratchy, boggy bits of forest, a weird bit of old woodland where all the trees (mature and deciduous) had died but still stood tall, dry and leafless, and a lot of leafy enclosures.
We wandered round Beaulieu in an unsuccessful search for a shop, ate a delicious panini snack looking over the estuary and reluctantly agreed that we should continue to Brockenhurst for further snacks. Those 8 miles dragged, especially the road climb out of Beaulieu, and at one point we found ourselves on a very narrow, very overgrown path. Eventually we reached little Tesco, stocked up on snacks and cider, and found a perfect camping spot in a little gorse clearing on some heathland just north of the town.
We heated tinned chilli and rice, chatted rubbish and drank cider. We didn’t bother putting the tent up because it was quite warm, so we just slept on the groundsheet and a sleeping bag. It was cloudy when we went to sleep but I woke halfway through the night to a sky full of stars, which was amazing. In the morning we had all-day-breakfast and porridge (respectively, not together), packed up and squeezed out of our little gorsey circle.
Having cycled 41 miles on day 1, the most fearsome enemy of day 2 was the saddle. Even the flat, straight old gravel railway line out of Brockenhurst was uncomfortable at best, even though the views over the scrubby, pony-spangled heathland were lovely. We headed west and stopped in Burley to peer through the windows of the famous witch shops, then slogged up the hill for lunch overlooking the grassy, gorsey valley at Picket Post.
Apart from going off-route in the last enclosure and inadvertently extending the ride a little, the cycle back to Hill HQ was uneventful and verging on type 2 fun due to the unpleasantness of sitting down. We got back mid-afternoon and sprawled on the grass, sweaty, tired and relieved to be out of the saddle. We’d done a further 28 miles that day, bringing the total mileage to 69 on the dot.
Despite the soreness, we’d both had a whale of a time. The only thing we’ll do differently next time is carry more on our bikes and less on our backs – everything was in backpacks except for the things in my handlebar and frame bags, so we’ll get some panniers/saddlebags. Bikepacking allowed us to cover a significant distance – the breadth of the New Forest and back – in just a couple of days, without rushing and mainly offroad. We saw forest, heath, hill, valley, river and bog, a whole load of nature and some pretty villages. There’s no feeling of freedom quite like camping out under the stars and being able to carry everything you need. 8/10 overall (minus one for each sore arse).
Wednesday – Exploring and Mountain boarding, New Forest
We hadn’t made a concrete decision as to what to do due to a post-cycle inability to do anything productive, so on Karen’s suggestion (mummy Hill) we went to Hurst spit across the other side of the New Forest. We stopped on the way for a quick wander round a pond, parked in Keyhaven and walked through the saltmarsh nature reserve to the spit, which is a long, stony peninsula between the mainland and the Isle of Wight. We had lunch on the beach while watching a kiteboarder, decided that we quite fancied kiteboarding, and walked the length of the spit to Hurst Castle. It was closed due to coronavirus but the walk was nice.
On the way back to Hill HQ we stopped at a spot with a little slope to play around on the mountain board. We took turns whizzing down it before deciding it’d be a good idea to try sitting on the board. It wasn’t – I ended up with a leg peppered with gorse splinters and Ryan friction-burnt his ankle on the wheel.
Thursday – Chill, Warminster
The heavens opened on Thursday and we allowed ourselves a chill day. We went back to my cottage in Warminster via Ryan’s in Bowerchalke (we’ve been staying at Hill HQ throughout lockdown) and sorted out our climbing/camping gear, Ryan cooked Thai green curry, and we watched films. Stepbrothers is still funny.
Friday and Saturday – Camping, fishing, climbing and paddleboarding, Dorset
We left mine in the morning and drove to Worth Matravers, all packed up ready for camping, climbing and fishing. We parked in the usual car park and walked the other-worldly path down to Winspit Quarry, where I learned to climb a couple of years ago.
The disused limestone quarry is situated in Purbeck on the east Dorset coast and the path down to it goes through a lovely, timeless valley, flanked by steep-sided grassy fields and lined by hedgerows teeming with wildlife. The sea rises flat and high in the V of the valley and everything is strikingly blue and green. The quarry sits on a rocky, blocky stretch of coastline that falls away about 15 sheer metres to the water crashing over the boulders below.
We turned right at the little bay which divides the two climbing areas, went past the West Quarry and carried on along the limestone platform until we got to the last cave before sheer rock dictates the end of the walkway. It’s more of a dugout than a proper cave, about 4m deep, 2.5m high and 10m wide. We plonked our stuff and Ryan cast a fishing line out over the edge. Unfortunately he lost an imitation ragworm to the unforgiving rocks below, which ruled out bottom fishing, and it was too windy for spinning so our fishing expedition ended there.
We spent the rest of the day chilling in the cave, overlooking the sea and watching the birds go about their long flights parallel to the cliffs. We ate leftover Thai green curry supplemented with (on my part, anyway – Ryan refused to participate) foraged sea kale and sea beet. Despite my strong inclination against sitting still, it was relaxing to just listen to the sea, put the world to rights and admire the long, wild coastline visible to the east.
Sleeping in the open cave on just a mat and under just a sleeping bag was wonderfully liberating and we got up later than we should have. By the time we’d packed up and walked the short distance to the bolted West Quarry climbing area it was starting to get busy, so we shot up and down the easygoing climb Bread Knife while it was free. We decided to try out the Quarryman’s Wall area across the bay, only to find it even busier. People queued for Tom’s Patience and every route at 6a or below was taken, so we dithered bitterly for a few minutes before deciding that Saturday morning shortly after lockdown restrictions were eased wasn’t the best time to be at Winspit.
We plodded the twenty-minute walk back to the car and left for Swanage, hoping to get some fishing in. Luckily we’d kept Tom’s paddleboard in the car just in case, so we parked in a sneaky spot away from the touristy centre and took it down to the almost empty beach east of the popular bit. The tide was low so we cancelled our fishing plans and I took the paddleboard out in shorts and a t-shirt, shortly to discover that even with a relatively calm sea, a river board is definitely designed for use on the river. I was soaked quite quickly after my first attempt to stand, and although I got the hang of it, rogue waves kept catching me off guard and I took some spectacular tumbles.
Ryan trotted out to join me and I alternated between messing around on the paddleboard and indulging in the first bit of swimming I’ve done for several months. I’d been in the sea about an hour before realising I was a bit cold, so I waded back to the beach like some dreadful wet creature and pulled on some dry clothes. We drove back to Hill HQ for cider n chill with the Hillbillies, a bit irked to have had our fishing and climbing plans thwarted but pleased with our impromptu paddleboarding trip and glad to have had a couple of days on the Dorset coast.
Queuing for climbs – not my thing
Post-paddle
Sunday – Sulking, Hill HQ
It was father’s day so I met mum, dad and brother at granny’s house in Sarisbury Green, east of Southampton, and went for a lovely walk along the River Hamble. Apart from this and an evening barbecue at Hill HQ it was quite uneventful – a day of winding down after a week of as many activities and adventures as possible, given the lockdown.
I’m not much of a stay-in-bed person, but given the previous day’s fiasco I granted Ryan a lie in. It was our last day in France, so we had a morning of admin n chill. After our things were packed into Pierre the Polo we stocked up on food at a supermarket in Les Houches and headed to Chamonix.
Considered the mountaineering capital of the Alps, Chamonix is a lively town full of outdoor shops and bars. High, snowy mountains interspersed with dark pine forest provide an impressive backdrop for the colourful streets, and a statue pointing towards Mont Blanc commemorates Jacques Balmat, the first person to climb the mountain in 1786, and his funder Horace Bénédict de Saussure. I particularly liked a mural depicting balconies and shuttered windows busy with old-fashioned mountaineers, skiiers and locals which was painted on the side of one of the five-storey buildings that line the streets.
We poked around a Decathlon and a North Face shop before doing the standard tat shop run for tourist bits – we picked up sew-on badges, car stickers and a small keyring knife. We went for a wander, backtracked after getting a little lost, fell out with an uncooperative parking machine and left for Italy, reflecting that Chamonix would be a great place to stay on a group holiday.
The Mont Blanc tunnel runs straight through the mountain for 12km and cost us €45. In 1999 there was a terrible fire which killed 35 people, so we were instructed by the tunnel’s own radio station to drive between 50 and 70kph and stay 150m (two road marks) behind the vehicle in front. The thought of driving literally through a mountain was cool, but it was quite a boring 12km and the long strips of lights lining the tunnel made it very samey.
We emerged in the midst of the Italian Alps, whose mysterious summits and low valleys were concealed by thick, snowy fog. The imposing slopes stood in contrast to the comparatively visible, majestic French mountains we’d been surrounded by twenty minutes before. The road wound through and under the mountains (driving in this region involves a lot of tunnels) and we got to our new village, Ayez, in an hour.
We parked in the village car park overlooking the lovely, mountainous Aosta valley and settled into our AirBnB place. We had the ground floor of a rustic house, which was basically one big room containing a kitchen, dining table, double bed, a few bits of furniture and a room-dividing shelving unit full of unidentifiable but functional-looking items. There was a bathroom with a bidet just off the main room, and by the kitchen area there was a door into a really cool stone cave (probably meant for storing wine) with a big map of the Aosta valley on the wall. It had a real timeless, rural feel, with its carved furniture, tiled floor and miscellaneous ornaments.
Our AirBnB host, Sergio, knocked on the door after a while. Sergio spoke about as much English as we spoke Italian, which was none. Once we figured out that he spoke French I managed a conversation about the occupancy form we were required to fill out under Italian law, reassured him that the temperature in the room was fine (he was very concerned) and he went on his merry Italian way.
That evening Ryan cooked his signature dish, the whatever-we-have stir fry, and we spent the evening updating our vlog, poking around the various bits of Italian literature (which ranged from local tourism to a huge volume on 18th century French furniture), drinking thrown-together cocktails and planning the next day. The highlight of the evening was a strangely mesmerising wooden game that I’ve since found is called Tyrolean roulette, which involves rolling little balls at a spinning top in the middle of a round board and keeping a score based on the numbered divots that the ball pings into. It’s the simple things.
We left the cabin much later than planned due to the reluctance of our slow, hungover bodies and plodded to the hire shop to pick up some snowshoes. We planned to hike up Mount Joly (2,525m) via the ski runs and hiking trails, which was fairly straightforward – navigable using the map in the ski leaflet, or so we thought.
I always thought of showshoes in the typical cartoon tennis racquet sense, which isn’t too far off. Ours were big, flat, foot-shaped bits of plastic with small metal studs on the bottom for grip, with two “settings” – hinged under the toe, which allowed the outside portion of the device to “flap” down and stay close to the ground when lifting the foot, and fixed, which locked the whole shoe stiff. Hinged was better for going uphill and fixed better downhill. It was strange at first and I kept treading on the edges of my own shoes, but got used to it after a little while. It was amazing how much grip we had, and the shoes enabled us to walk on deep, soft snow and up steep, icy slopes that we never would have been able to climb in just boots.
The Ascent
We hiked up blue runs, red runs and through tall, dark green pine forest, all the time backed by jagged, snow-capped mountains. As we climbed higher the mountains seemed to grow around us in size and number, until we reached l’Epaule du Joly (2,135m) – the shoulder of Mount Joly – and the high, white brow we’d been fixated on for over an hour suddenly gave way to a horizon full of rough, majestic peaks.
The hardest part was towards the top of that section. We had to hike up two red runs, which were unforgivingly steep and seemed never-ending. I focused on reaching that post, then that post, then that sign, breaking it down into more manageable bits, and I wouldn’t stop until I reached a more significant milestone, like the bottom of a new run. I watched some Alpine choughs diving off the roof of a cabin and listened to their high-pitched trill. Ryan and I didn’t speak for a long time.
Peril #1
L’Epaule was the highest ski lift, and to get to Mount Joly we had to move up steep, snow-covered rock. We swapped snowshoes for crampons, looked up at the looming white mass, and started upwards, using the leki poles to check that the snow and ice in front of us concealed hard rock, not open space. It was thigh-deep in places and we regretted leaving the ice axe back in the cabin.
We moved sideways up the steep face, front-pointing the toes of our crampons firmly into the ice, until one of mine came loose. I’d borrowed my crampons from Ryan’s dad and my boots were a bit too narrow for them, so my heel kept slipping out the back. While I adjusted, we really had to lean into the slope and find a solid footing as a slip would see us tumbling down the steep, rocky ridge with no means of arrest.
The crampon was wedged tight on the back of my boot, so much so that I couldn’t move it in our precarious position. Neither of us wanted to make the call and for a moment we just took in the near panoramic view, until Ryan expressed his concern in a strained tone that I’d never heard before. Recalling fatal stories of summit fever and remembering his dad’s words of caution, we reluctantly turned round and headed back down.
With hindsight I’m more disappointed now than I was at the time, but it was the right decision. While testing the ground for firmness on the way down, I punched a leki pole straight through a cornice (an overhanging snow edge that looks solid; we looked up at it afterwards and were almost certain that it was a cornice) into thin air, and with one pokey, semi-loose crampon, I couldn’t have pressed on much further. We’d expected a hike, not a graded ice ascent, so didn’t take axes. The sky had been growing thicker and darker all afternoon and we were concerned about visibility worsening; we didn’t fancy an overnighter. There was no other sensible option.
Descent
The plod back followed the same route and was scenic but very, very long. We’d both been a little hungover but Ryan felt really rough coming back down, which I maintain had something to do with him refusing to eat. I returned the snowshoes in dwindling light while sickie dragged his poor body straight back to the cabin, then I tried to revive him with a hot drink and some food. We didn’t have much and had planned to find somewhere to eat out for our last night in France, so we got in the Polo and set off on what would soon become a treacherous journey.
In our normal blasé fashion, we did zero research and intended to stumble across a place to eat. We found that the pizzeria in our tiny village was closed, so we sent Google maps to the nearest restaurant. We followed the innocent-looking little blue arrow off the main road and down a suspiciously steep drive, which narrowed, steepened, became twisty, and – most worryingly – increasingly icy.
Peril #2
We couldn’t turn back, so we crawled along. There’s no way to describe the heart-in-your-mouth feeling of suddenly being taken by black ice. We slid diagonally down the road, picking up speed, as I tried to feather the brakes. Our concern (verging on terror) grew, but luckily the gentle braking worked and we slowed to a precarious halt. It was so tense that we felt that breathing too hard could set the car off again. On our left – the side closest to me and the way the camber pushed the car – was a deep ditch and a bunch of not-very-soft-looking rocks and trees. We ran through our options. We had snow chains in the boot, but no way of putting them on without moving the wheels. Attempting to control the car was likely to result in another sliding session, but we didn’t seem to have much choice. For the second time that day, Ryan spoke in a tone that I’d never heard before.
Stifling the rising feeling of dread, I told myself that although I didn’t fancy losing the €800 deposit on the car or negotiating our recovery in French (then paying the fee), we weren’t going to die. Ryan got out (gingerly) and moved around to the driver’s side, then put all his weight into pushing the car towards the uphill camber, while I tentatively eased off the clutch and crept forward. We slid a little, then I was in control. We slid again, and I was in control again. Ryan left his post and walked/slid in front of the car, directing me to the least icy bits of road, and we moved down the hill this way – just tickling the accelerator and the brake – for what seemed like an age.
Finally we reached a flatter bit and Ryan got back in the car. We crept along, flanked on either side by dark, ominous trees and incredibly on-edge, crossed a bridge over a river, and started ascending the winding road on the opposite side of the monstrous valley. The relief was immense but fragile, as we were painstakingly aware that we could come across more ice.
Relief
We emerged literally out of the woods and onto a more major road. Very few times in my life have I felt comparable elation, mixed with the sudden realisation that I was famished and totally exhausted. Not only had we climbed more vertical metres in a day than either of us had before (about 1,000m), in snow, but we’d barely eaten a thing. It was about 9pm on a Monday and we weren’t near any major resorts, so our hopes of finding anywhere open were low.
By chance, we came to a Chinese restaurant on a road in Saint-Gervais-Les-Bains, the nearest large town to our village. We nearly didn’t get out the car as although the lights were on, it looked dead. We pushed at the door and it opened, sounding a bell, but there were no waiting staff or customers anywhere. We looked tentatively around the warm, colourful room decorated with Chinese art and didn’t dare to hope too hard. A minute or so later a waitress came along, looked a little confused by my desperate-sounding plea (in French) for a table and gave us the second-best news of the evening: that they were still serving food.
I have never tasted such delicious Chinese food anywhere, and I don’t think it was just because of the day we’d had. It was everything I could have wanted – prawns in a lovely spicy sauce and fragranced rice with veg, and Ryan had some noodley thing. He perked up afterwards, but we were both so exhausted that after the thankfully uneventful drive back to the cabin (safe to say we eschewed Google Maps and stuck to the main road) we collapsed into bed like two sacks of potatoes.
If someone had described the situation we’re in a couple of months ago I’d have thought they were describing some piece of weird, dark and never-going-to-happen literature (probably Russian). Yet here we are, confined to our own little corners and forbidden from going about our normal lives.
In January I was in Dorset, Guernsey and the French, Italian and Swiss Alps, in February I visited Kent, London, Birmingham and the Peak District, and in March I moved house from Hampshire to Wiltshire. Three weeks ago I stepped over the threshold of Hill HQ (my boyfriends’ parents’ house) and I’ve remained within running/cycling distance ever since.
As a hyperactive outdoor person, this is practically Armageddon. I live to explore and discover (hence curious) so being stuck within the same four walls is a little maddening. However, I’m very fortunate to be here for several reasons:
I’m in the wonderful and incredibly hospitable company of Ryan’s parents, dog, two brothers and their girlfriends, so with eight (nine, including dog) of us quarantined together it’s never too quiet.
Unlike my little cottage, Hill HQ has a garden.
The New Forest is right on the doorstep, making this little corner of the outdoors just about accessible.
The Hills are also outdoor people, so there are plenty of books, bikes and bits of gym, climbing and outdoor gear to keep me occupied.
So I’m in the best place possible, but I’m missing the mountains, the sea and all the wild bits in between more than ever. I’m guilty of looking wistfully through old photos, which used to make me twitchy-restless even in the pre-corona days. But I’m trying to make the most of having free time to spend creatively and productively.
Alongside working from home full time, I’ve played board games, card games, drinking games, darts, done quizzes, learnt crevasse rescue in the garden, made silly videos, started learning to lasso, read books, slacklined, been on several bike rides, lit a fire with flint and steel, slept in a tent, had my hair cut, had my ears pierced, gardened, written blog posts, ran, walked the dog, seen lots of wildlife, cooked, built a bird table, watched films, brewed alcohol, practised French, painted a deer, had an easter egg hunt, started painting a fish, caught up with friends, used the garage gym, painted a fence, mowed a lawn and started an environmental e-learning course.
My plan is to continue being productive: learn new skills, improve old skills, make things, keep in touch with people and do everything I’ve been meaning to do for a long time. I hope that this will keep me sane, at least until I can get away to the mountains again.
I hope everyone has the sense to stay home and make the most of having more of the greatest universal asset – time.
Having spent Day 2 of our Alps holiday snowboarding for the first time, I realised that snowsports could become yet another of my thrilling and unaffordable interests. I could happily have boarded for another day (as Ryan did, having done both before) but I wanted to try skiing too. We’d swapped my board for skis the previous evening, so we were wrapped up and back on the slopes bright and early.
Mounting and dismounting the lift for the first time on skis was much easier than on a board. I was still a cumbersome creature but at least I effectively just had two extremely long feet, rather than a clunky slab of wood being dragged around by one foot. We started on the blue run we’d whizzed round the previous afternoon, beginning at the top of the Chattrix ski lift and finishing at the end. It had a good mix of steep, twisty, open and forested sections, and although not ideal for an absolute beginner, I’d probably have got bored with more suitable slopes.
Skiing was much easier to pick up than snowboarding. Skis give you two independent points of contact with the ground, whereas having both feet strapped stiff to a snowboard mean that if you start going over, there’s no intuitive way of counterbalancing. Having thought about it, I won’t write about this too much as I’ll do a separate post comparing the two.
Once I’d got the hang of snowploughing my way down the Chattrix run, we went down the first blue run of the previous day (much more successfully), up the Croix du Christ lift and down the long blue run with the gentle but sheer-sided section. It was along here that I realised how much quicker skis are than boards as I lost Ryan very quickly, which was a shame as he was trying to film me.
I found the poles helped a lot with keeping speed on the gradual slopes and balancing generally, but I still managed a few fairly dramatic, snowcloud-inducing crashes on the steep sections. I preferred crashing on a snowboard as the long skis made me feel giraffe-like; at least on a board you land directly on bum or knees, whereas skis jabbing into snow threaten to bend knee and hip joints in ways they shouldn’t be bent.
Back at the bottom, I tentatively mounted the button lift that had given me so much grief the previous day, back to the top of the Chattrix run. Annoyingly (but to my relief) it was perfectly straightforward on skis. We nipped down the blue route, noting the thickening sky, and back to the cabin for a warming lunch of soup and baguette. It was only then that I realised that I’d been learning to ski with two straps undone on each boot.
The afternoon was spent doing laps of the Chattrix blue run and we both loved it. Occasionally I hated it, but that was only when I was reminded that I wasn’t very good at skiing by all the skiiers flying past making parallel skiing (if that’s what it’s even called) look as effortless as sipping an apres-ski mulled cider. The weather had deteriorated throughout the day and by mid-afternoon powdery snow was laying delicately on the slopes, making it increasingly difficult for this cumbersome infant giraffe to ski at a sensible speed and in a controlled manner, so we gave each other the mutually understood “time for a drink” look and abandoned slope.
We returned the gear to the shop and continued along the road away from the cabin to the nearby village of Saint-Nicolas-de-Véroce to pick up some supplies, namely a bottle of gin. The village was very quaint, situated halfway up the valley side with an elaborate chapel, big wooden chalets and a beautifully presented but small shop, which was crammed with all sorts of fascinating (to two uncultured English louts, anyway) tins, jars, packets, meats, cheeses and bottles.
Unfortunately we couldn’t justify spending €42 on gin, so we settled for c.€20 vodka and some snacky snacks. We walked the half hour or so back to our cabin, cooked improvised pea and ham soup with leftovers and spent the evening drinking far more than intended. The phrase “we’re on holiday” was getting a great workout. 10/10 would ski again, although on balance (and despite being more difficult) I’d pick up a snowboard first.
curiousgnome 