Crinkle Crags via Crinkle Gill
A breathtaking scramble on to Crinkle Crags, through the ravines and rock pools of Crinkle Gill, is nearly blocked by a waterfall known as “The Wall”.
The Mists of Time
Trepidation and euphoria are the two faces of that coin we flip each time we step out of our comfort zone. Apprehension and self-doubt weigh heavily, cajoling us to wriggle out of the challenge; and yet rarely do we feel more alive than when we conquer our misgivings. For me, that has a habit of happening on Crinkle Crags.
My forays into the fells began twenty three years ago. These days, when I find myself tutting at ill-equipped fell-walkers, it does me good to remember that that was me back then. Walking like John Wayne for the best part of a week after attempting Scafell Pike on the hottest day of the year taught me that jeans are not a fellwalker’s friend, but it was Crinkle Crags that was to give me my first real wake up call.
I had a decent guidebook, an OS map, and a compass, but I didn’t know how to use the latter properly. If I had, I’d have realised it was little more than a toy, capable of pointing north, but with no facility for taking a bearing, even if I’d known what one was. Fortunately, on this occasion, just knowing which way was north would prove my salvation.
I hadn’t intended to be reckless: my guidebook warned that Crinkle Crags was a walk for a fine day, the path along the ridge being sketchy and hard to follow in mist. As I left Stool End Farm, the sky was a clear expanse of blue, but by the time I reached Red Tarn, clouds were gathering, and by the time I reached Long Top, the summit, they were down. Crinkle Crags is a ridge comprising 5 peaks (the Crinkles) running in a straight line south to north. Long Top is the second. With moderate visibility, they unfurl in front of you and you simply follow the ridge between them. Now, in the clag, I couldn’t see the third, let alone the fourth and fifth. I could make out a path, however, and the security of knowing I was following in the footsteps of others gave me courage enough to continue.
Pretty soon what started as a mild thrum of unease built into a cacophony of anxiety. This was wrong. I was descending. My rudimentary compass was at least capable of showing I was heading west. Carrying on in this direction would deposit me in the wilds of Upper Eskdale, miles from my car, miles from anywhere. I retraced my steps back to the crest and forced my rookie self to forgo the faux security of the trod and venture north into the pathless mist. I can still remember the heady mix of elation and relief when the murk resolved into the Third Crinkle.
Before I reached the fourth, I heard the welcome sound of voices, and out of the gloom appeared a party of about twenty fell-walkers. Relief must have been written large on my face as they welcomed me to their number, urging me to “stick with us. Martin’s very good. He knows what he’s doing.”
Martin was their leader, an officious little man, somewhat pumped up with a sense of his own importance. Not that I was complaining—confidence born of experience was exactly what I wanted, and I was happy to be led.
Or at least, I was until we started descending towards Eskdale again. Having made this mistake once, I was anxious not to repeat it, and I spoke up. Martin dismissed my concerns, and several of his disciples turned to repeat, with pious assurance, that “he knows what he’s doing”. To me, the evidence said otherwise, and for the second time I had to make a difficult wrench in favour of reason over apparent security. Only this time, I wasn’t alone. A Liverpudlian couple walked over and confided that they were thinking the same. Together, we left the party, regained the ridge, and found the two remaining Crinkles. At Three Tarns, lurking beneath a shadowy Bow Fell, we found the path down The Band that led us back to Great Langdale.
That evening, I watched the local news with dread, awaiting a story about a group of fellwalkers missing on Crinkle Crags. Thankfully, no such report emerged. Perhaps Martin knew what he was doing after all. But I had learned a valuable lesson. The next day I bought a proper compass and started learning how to use it.
The next time I was on Long Top, I tackled the Bad Step, a short but near vertical scramble out of a gully blocked by chockstones that I had baulked at on that first occasion. This time, I would learn that patience and persistence pay dividends, yielding handholds not obvious on first inspection.
Over the subsequent years, Crinkle Crags had come to feel like an old friend, still richly endowed with dramatic scenery, but no longer a keeper of secrets to set my pulse a racing. I was wrong.
Answering the Call
When the phone rang, it was Richard, “Jaclyn and I are doing Crinkle Crags via Crinkle Gill on Thursday. We wondered if you’d like to come?”
We’d been planning to meet up, but I’d envisaged something a little less demanding. I was still to fully lose my lockdown legs. Richard has a knack of taking me out of my comfort zone, however, (we did Sharp Edge and Jack’s Rake together), and his enthusiasm is infectious: “It’s like entering another world, you’ll forget you’re in Great Langdale. It’s nothing you can’t handle, mainly walking, some easy scrambling and just a couple of big waterfalls near the end that are a bit tricky”.
It was the “bit tricky” part that provoked the tingle of misgiving, but even so, I heard myself agreeing.
“Good”, said Richard. “Bring microspikes and a helmet”.
Oxendale Beck and Browney Gill
Oxendale Beck is formed where three principal gills that collect the run-off from Crinkle Crags commingle. Buscoe Syke starts as a trickle near Three Tarns at the northern end of the ridge and flows south-east to become Hell Gill, before cascading majestically over Whorneyside Force; Browney Gill tumbles down from the waters of Red Tarn, nestled between Pike O’ Blisco and the southernmost Crinkle. Between them, Crinkle Gill flows east, cutting a deep ravine in the slopes beneath the Third Crinkle. Once we’re out of the trees around the Old Dungeon Ghyll Hotel, we can see it—a purple scar on the pale green face of the fell.
A popular route to Crinkle Crags climbs above Browney Gill to Red Tarn and tackles the ridge south to north. We follow it as far as Oxendale Beck, but turn right, tracking the bank a little way before descending to its bouldery bed. A spell of dry weather has reduced the weight of water, leaving a broad tumble of rocks, worn smooth and round, their grey faces streaked yellow with lichen. Between the boulders, jets of water hiss white and collect in limpid pools of mineral hues: green, turquoise and rust.
Wet stone is slippery as hell and we pause to don microspikes, which grip damp rock as effectively as they do ice. This is where we suffer a setback. As Richard stretches the rubber harness over his left boot, it snaps—an unseen tear from a previous trip finally giving out.
He’s determined to continue, “I’ll just have to keep out of the water”, he says. “It shouldn’t be difficult today, but I’ll probably have to bypass the waterfalls.”
I can see the disappointment in his face. Jaclyn looks relieved.
“You can still do them!” he exclaims to her with a smile. She laughs, then turns to me to explain that she has long had a phobia about water, which she’s desperate to overcome for the sake of their four-year-old daughter. She’s been making tremendous progress, but this will be her biggest test to date. My comfort zone suddenly seems much closer than hers.
We stride on up the beck, clambering over the boulders, Richard hugging the dry ones, Jaclyn resisting the urge to do the same. Shortly before the confluence of Crinkle Gill and Whorneyside Gill, a narrow tree-lined ravine opens on the left, its walls of mottled rock so straight it resembles a railway cutting. Water cascades over littered stones to form a languid pool at its mouth. This is the entrance to Browney Gill. Browney Gill and Crinkle Gill quickly diverge, but in their initial stages, they are separated only by a grassy tongue. Crinkle Gill starts as an open boulder bed, so Browney Gill holds more initial interest. We enter the narrow leafy gorge and scramble gently upstream. Everything is bathed in dappled light, shifting hues of yellow and green. Langdale already seems distant.
Crinkle Gill – The Pool and the Dam
As the ravine begins to widen, we make our exit up the bank of the grassy tongue running down from Gladstone Knott. We cross the thin trickle of Isaac Gill and drop into the bed of Crinkle Gill itself. It’s not long before it too cuts into a ravine. As walls of mossy rock converge, green with bracken and overhung with rowan, our eyes are drawn to the distant Crinkles, looming like majestic pyramids ahead. They are our lofty destination, but we have many hurdles to cross first.
Now the walls become steeper, the tree canopy obscures the wider world, and Crinkle Gill becomes its own realm, pushing Great Langdale and Crinkle Crags out of mind. Richard’s mental map divides the gill into four distinct sections. Each harbours obstacles which the scrambler must overcome. He has names for them all. Overhead, a fallen tree spans the banks like a bridge and heralds our first challenge, The Pool, a deep basin collecting the water that shoots over a barrage of boulders. The scramble looks simple, but the pool has no obvious bypass. Richard explains the way around involves a tricky traverse of the ravine’s nigh vertical right wall. I anticipate a soaking, but as we reach the water’s edge, we find some enterprising soul has manoeuvred two large rocks into the bottom to make a ford. We’ve been spared our first trial.
We venture on over water-rounded rocks. Everywhere, boulders hiss with swishing cascades, and we wade through crystal pools, copper green and iron red. All are but overtures, however, for what lies ahead. The first section ends in a barrier that Richard calls The Dam, a 10ft wall formed around a large chockstone. I stare in wonder. It’s beautiful. It looks like the fantastical head of a giant insect: atop the mossy green armour of its mandibles is perched a giant eye of black granite, while the crashing cataract at its centre resembles a probing white proboscis, plumbing the myrtle green waters below. I’m roused from this flight of fancy by the need to circumvent it, which is accomplished easily enough, in the event, by pulling ourselves up the pitched rocks to its right.
Crinkle Gill – The Chute and the Overhang
The gill bends left to start its second section and narrows to a long course of rapids, which Richard calls The Chute. The rocks on the right provide an obvious climb. The stone is green with moss, but mostly dry. Richard tackles the damper sections with caution but encounters no difficulties. Jaclyn climbs last, apparently unfazed by the crashing torrents to her left.
At the head of The Chute, the wall of the ravine becomes a large slab of overhanging rock with the beck forced into a narrow gap beneath it. Scrambling up the cascade and ducking under the overhang is awkward, but we tackle it stoically, aware that greater tests lie ahead.
Crinkle Gill – The Canyon of Carrion
Now, the ravine deepens, hemmed in by high walls of crag comprising dark slabs of gun-metal grey. Richard calls this section, The Canyon. Surprisingly, there are sheep here, hardy Herdwick mountaineers drawn down by the prospect of water, or shelter, or some tasty flora not to be had on the grassy slopes above. As we enter the mouth, three ewes bolt past us, escaping the confines for a grassy rake that leads to open fell. A little further on, we disturb a raven feasting on dead flesh. As it takes flight, the walls echo with its indignant croaks and the downbeat of big black wings. Then the putrid stench of carrion assaults our nostrils and we find the body of a ewe. She must have fallen from the crag above. Beside her is a smaller carcass—the young lamb that loyally followed her to its death.
As we emerge from the tunnel, sunlight illuminates the rocks, and a small frog hops over white stone crackle-glazed with charcoal lines. As we look up our eyes are greeted with remarkable vista: the Third Crinkle rears above the head of the gill, a colossal white dome, defended by plunging walls. Shadowy gullies hint at lines of weakness, breaches that might afford an upward passage.
Crinkle Gill – The Wall
But the way ahead is barred by the biggest obstacle we will face: a large waterfall, which Richard fittingly calls The Wall. It is a formidable rampart. The watercourse is defined by slabs, worn to the shape of a man rising from a crouch. A sparkling cataract shoots down his torso, crashes into his lap, before running over his knee to drop vertically into the pond beneath. It’s a sight both exhilarating and terrifying. When we’re standing right in front of it, looking up in anxious wonder, Richard points out a grassy rake behind us that leads out of the gorge—an escape should we desire it. But we don’t—it’s time to step out of the comfort zone; everything we have encountered so far feels like a rehearsal. But Richard won’t manage this safely without microspikes. It occurs to us that if I go first, I can throw mine down for him to use. I’d hoped to watch and learn, but strangely, I’m not fazed. I can see the route, and my confidence is bolstered when Richard talks me through it, pointing out a shallow ledge that is the key to the upper section. From there, I’ll have to put a knee in the stream to get over the lip, he tells me.
I walk around the glassy pool to the sheer face of slate grey stone, its damper sections maroon with algae. At its foot, a narrow ledge leads to the cascade. Stepping over onto the boulders, I climb slightly away from the water to a grassy bank which leads, in turn, up to slab of exposed stone. Moving back beside the torrent now affords the footholds I need to reach the lap. Before I know it, I’m standing on the narrow shelf we spied from below. My outstretched hand is level with the parapet. There is another good foothold, but I can’t reach it without something to grip, and I can find nothing but precarious tufts of grass. I spend what feels like an eternity hunting around. Just when I wonder whether I’m stuck, patience and persistence pay off. My hand chances on a smooth spur of stone. It’s all the grip I need to pull myself up high enough to get a knee in the water and a hand on to the rock at the far side. I’m now lying firm but prostrate over water gushing off a steep lip. A final inelegant heave, part shuffle, part wiggle, part crawl gets me over the edge. I stand up in triumph and throw my microspikes down to Richard. Much to Richard’s delight and surprise, Jaclyn opts to come next, tracking my route and my long hunt for handholds. For a horrible moment I think she’s going to slip, but she doesn’t, and she effects a similar wriggle over the edge (perhaps with a tad more elegance). I expect Richard to make it look easy, but even with his experience, the hunt for handholds in the final section is long and tense.
Crinkle Gill – The Fallen Man, Dour End, & the Amphitheatre
Beyond The Wall, a massive, toppled boulder rests like a buttress against the side of the ravine. Richard tries to think of a name for it. Its top resembles the chiselled face of an Eastern Island head; “The Fallen Man”, he declares.
The head of the gill now opens into a savagely beautiful amphitheatre: a vast natural cathedral of craggy pillars, lofty domes, and cavernous alcoves. I take a moment to stare enrapt, feeling hopelessly small amid this hidden temple of mountain grandeur.
Three gullies diverge like aisles, the leftmost is the nave, and this is the one we follow. It leads us to our last major obstacle—a shadowy waterfall, which Richard has christened Dour End. It’s a challenge, but we are now veterans of The Wall, and we have its measure. I go first again so I can throw back my spikes. Jaclyn shows no hesitation in following. The top section is smooth like a water slide and I see no way up it, so opt for steeper pull over rock and grass to its right. When Richard appears over the parapet, it’s obvious he found a way to follow the water.
Crinkle Crags
We climb through a gully littered with fallen trees and emerge on to open fell. We stand on a grassy knoll and drink in the heady views over Great Langdale and the Langdale Pikes. After hours immersed in world of cascades and canyons, dappled light and dramatic vistas, crystal rock pools and crashing cataracts, it’s a shock to be back on familiar ground.
Our journey replays on fast-forward in my head, and for an instant, I am back on The Wall, groping for an elusive handhold, the water crashing vertically down the sheer face; and now I’m hit with the trepidation I was too focused to feel before. As it subsides, a warm wave of euphoria washes over me. I look at Jaclyn, who’s face is etched in a quiet smile—her phobia well and truly conquered—and I see Richard beaming with pride.
The Third Crinkle is bathed in sunshine, but Long Top is shrouded in low lying cloud, and suddenly, I’m transported back twenty three years, reliving that one small step into the clag and that one giant leap in my outdoor education. Crinkle Crags—ever a mountain for overcoming misgivings.
Further Reading / Route Info
For detailed information on the route we took, check out Richard’s route guide on his excellent Lakeland Routes website:
