Pinnacle Ridge on St Sunday Crag is a head-rush of wonder and adrenaline, but as a grade 3 scramble, I had long imagined it beyond my capabilities. Then something happened, and I found myself on belay on one of Lakeland’s most dramatic arêtes.
“Somewhere in an old guide-book, published more than fifty years ago, I remember reading: ‘St. Sunday Crag IS the Ullswater mountain,’ and, when you come to think about it, it’s not a bad description. For St. Sunday Crag dominates the western reach of Ullswater far more dramatically than Helvellyn and, in a sense, commands the whole length of the lake better than any other mountain”. So wrote Harry Griffin in The Roof Of England in 1968. He expresses surprise at how walkers and climbers have long overlooked “this long line of crag, as big as several Napes Ridges crowded together” when, “the Grisedale face of the mountain, which drops nearly 2000‘ in half a mile is one of the most dramatic fellsides in the country… Rock climbers had missed it for years and only started making climbs there 12 years ago”.
These days, walkers are a more regular feature thanks in no small part to a book published eleven years before Griffin’s: Alfred Wainwright’s, The Eastern Fells. Wainwright completists now regularly discover St Sunday Crag by way of Birks or Arnison Crag, or by Deepdale Hause from Grisedale Tarn or Fairfield. Few brave its most dramatic ascent, however, as that lies within the liminal realm where walking ends and climbing begins. Pinnacle Ridge is a grade 3 scramble, much celebrated by those who have experienced its airy drama, but in Wainwright’s view, the grade 1-classified Jack’s Rake on Pavey Ark is “the limit” for fellwalkers, and like many others, I had long imagined Pinnacle Ridge to be beyond my capabilities.
Then something happened. On the evening of April 1st, I spotted a Facebook post by Graham Uney Mountaineering offering fellwalkers, who want to step up a level, a guided and roped scramble over this iconic arête. Underneath was a comment from Nikki Knappett saying, “that looks amazing”. I know Nikki. We’ve been Facebook friends for a while but finally met in February when we both attended a three-day winter skills course in the Highlands. Having braved the frozen slopes of Cairngorm together, climbing Pinnacle Ridge seemed an appropriate next step. The offer was for two fellwalkers who would be roped together and share a climbing rack. It would be well outside my comfort zone, but sometimes you have to seize opportunities when they arise, and I was pumped full of Dutch courage, courtesy of a glass or two of Rioja, so I replied, saying, “I’m up for that, if you are”. Nikki messaged me almost immediately to say “Are you serious? YES!!”, and we emailed Graham before either of us could chicken out.
Our initial date of May 10th had to be abandoned due to high winds and persistent rain. We rescheduled for June 27th, which just gave me longer to contemplate whether this snap decision had been the act of a colossal April Fool. But now the morning has arrived, excitement holds sway over nerves.
We meet Graham in the car park of the Patterdale Sports Club. He has asked us to bring big rucksacks to accommodate the climbing gear, and promptly hands me a harness and 30m of rope to stow. He offers me a helmet, but I’ve brought my own. It’s currently acting as a makeshift lunch box, but my utilitarian packing is soon disrupted when the heavens open, and I dive to the bottom of my bag for waterproof over trousers.
Nikki roars with laughter as my Gore-Tex over trousers are still patched with pink duct tape replete with unicorns, courtesy of misstep with a crampon on Cairngorm, and trusting Hayley Webb, a Winter Mountain Leader with a wicked sense of humour, to “fix” them for me. No sooner are they on than the rain stops. Such is the power of the pink unicorns. Now, Graham and Nikki won’t let me take them off.
We walk through Grisedale to the end of the Elmhow plantation, then leave the main path to zig zag steeply up hill, roughly following a beck. As we approach Blind Cove, the gradient eases and we track right below the crags. Across the valley, the east ridge of Nethermost Pike rears sharply upward to meet the summit plateau. Just a little further south, the Tongue makes a similar upward thrust to the top of Dollywagon Pike. These are stiff ascents: I’ve made both in recent weeks to try and build fitness in preparation for today. Each is rich in wild mountain drama, yet from each, my eyes wandered across the valley trying to pick out Pinnacle Ridge. I failed on both occasions. Graham assures me this is not unusual. The ridge is hard to spot from a distance, and the initial challenge that faces most scramblers is finding the start.
In his classic book, Scrambles in the Lake District: North, Brian Evans instructs you to cross two small scree shoots and then a larger one, then look out for a rowan tree about 45m up on the right hand side. Graham tells me the rowan tree blew down some years back. Furthermore, what counts as a small scree shoot seems somewhat open to interpretation. We all agree when we reach the larger one but depending on your definition, we’ve crossed anything from zero to about eight of the smaller kind. Luckily Evans’ final landmark, “a prominent gun-like block higher up the ridge” is a more reliable clue. Graham points it out, and we walk up to a small grassy ledge below a wall of blocks and boulders. To the right, the ground banks down into a gully.
Here, rope and harnesses are retrieved, and Graham talks us through the gear we’ll be using: slings, nuts, and cams or friends will provide temporary means of attaching carabiners to the rock to create belays for the rope which he now ties to our harnesses. Graham will lead and create these secure anchors. When he shouts, “you’re on belay”, that is our cue to move. Nikki will go second. I will go last and remove whichever nut, cam or sling we were hitherto attached to, twist it to compact, and clip it to my harness, then return it to Graham when we next converge. He will inspect my work like a sergeant-major offering the slightest of nods if it passes muster or a rueful, “that’s a right dog’s dinner” if I present him with a tangled mess.
He shows us how to tie a clove hitch in the rope to attach to a carabiner, providing a secure hold when taut, and easy adjustment when slack. Then he cheerfully exclaims “this way” and disappears into a groove in the wall of boulder, his head emerging seconds later a few feet higher. Nikki and I hasten into the breach to see where he’s putting his hands and feet. He disappears over a parapet and a minute or two later, we hear, “You’re on belay”.
Nikki smiles then turns to face the rock, but there’s a problem. Nikki has much shorter legs than Graham and can’t reach the footholds he used. At first, she laughs, but after three or four abortive attempts, she turns to me with a look of genuine concern and whispers, “I’m not sure I can do this”.
I try to sound encouraging when I say, “of course you can”, but I needn’t have worried. Before the words have left my lips, Nikki’s expression hardens into a steely determination, and she looks again, this time spotting less-obvious options. She can’t get her foot over the parapet like Graham did, but she can get a knee on to it, and it’s enough purchase to haul herself over.
The rope between us goes taut, and I’m reminded of the obvious: when Nikki moves, I must move too. I feel a guilty relief that the holds aren’t quite such a stretch for me. As we converge, Graham grins and asks, “what kept you?”. Nikki laughs and exclaims indignantly, “I’ve only got short legs!” It’s an exchange that will become something of a refrain.
Learning to move in synch has its teething problems. I have to anticipate when Nikki’s next move is going to be successful (which it usually is), or when she’s going to step back down and reconsider. My initial failure to do so results in an inadvertent kick in the head. Nikki apologises profusely and reminds me she only has short legs. The mistake was all mine, but thanks to Graham’s insistence on helmets I scarcely felt the knock. With my attention duly sharpened, I read the next abortive attempt correctly and move my fingers before they get trodden on. Nikki succeeds on her third attempt, and suddenly I’m obliged to move quickly to avoid pulling her back down.
As we reconvene at the top of the step, the ridge opens out before us, and we survey the scene with a head-rush of wonder and adrenaline. The next section is an erratic jumble of blocks, rising like toppled dominos to the gun-like boulder we spotted from below. Beyond, the ridge tapers to a slender spine above the plunging cleft of the gully. The spine is spiked with pinnacles, like the plates on the back of a stegosaurus.
Under Graham’s supervision, Nikki ties us on to the carabiner and we watch Graham pick a route up over the blocks and boulders. Once on belay, we follow his line. Our next resting point affords a vista over the foot of Ullswater, an “L” shaped oasis of muted blue amid the forest green of its banks. The dappled fells are lighter shades, a dancing ephemera of sunlight and shadow.
When we reach the top of the jumbled blocks, it looks as though the onward path is barred. The pinnacles sit atop a castle wall of rock. It looks unbreachable. Graham leads on and stops at the foot of a chimney which looks as unassailable as the walls we have passed. This is what Evans calls The Crux, and this is where he advises the use of rope even to those with climbing experience. Earlier, Graham had explained how climbing grades like Diff (Difficult) and V Diff (Very Difficult) are considered relatively moderate these days, but they were named by early pioneers who lacked the equipment we have now. Pioneers like Owen Glynne Jones, whose book, Rock climbing in the English Lake District did much to popularise the sport. Indeed, Jones’s book is illustrated by the Abraham Brothers’, who produced iconic photographs of Victorian climbers standing proudly atop Scafell Pinnacle or Pillar Rock in nailed boots and tweed suits. Apparently, there was a surge in demand for “grippy” tweed to tailor such garments. Nikki looks up at the Crux and exclaims, “we could do with grippy tweeds!” Graham laughs and says, “It’s funny you should say that as at one point in his book, O G Jones says, ‘imagine a foothold that isn’t there, and put your foot on it’. That’s what we’re going to have to do here!”
He points to a crack in the wall, and then to a couple of small footholds on the wall opposite. Using these as a springboard, he jams a fist into a fissure in the sidewall, steps across the gap and places a foot into the crack. It doesn’t appear to be resting on anything, but it supports him well enough to pull himself up an over the crest. When he gives us the go-ahead, Nikki attempts to follow.
Such is the height of the wall in proportion to the length of rope separating us, that I must follow too before she reaches the top. Nikki can’t reach the fist jam that Graham used but throws her weight across the gap and relies on momentum to carry her across to the foothold that isn’t there. It works well, and as she gets a handhold over the parapet, I follow suit. The crack must narrow inside as the toe of my left boot finds a secure hold. I want to push up and use the momentum trick to get my belly over the top of the wall, but Nikki has stalled. Her short legs are struggling to reach the higher footholds that Graham used to propel himself over. I’ve nothing to hold on to, so I lurch right getting my fingers over the ledge and the sole of my right boot balanced on the slightest of rocky knuckles. I have an uneasy sensation of being suspended in mid air. At this point, Nikki asks if I can take a step back. It’s impossible from this angle with no other handholds, and a worried silence ensues. We appear stuck in a stalemate where neither of us can move.
Then, that look of steely determination returns to Nikki’s face. She looks up and shouts, “have you got me, Graham?”
“I’ve always got you, Nikki, you’re tied to my rope”, comes the reply, but Nikki hasn’t waited for it. From nowhere, she summons a burst of upward energy that carries her knee over the top. There’s a lot of grappling around, but she’s laughing now and asking if she looks like a “graceful walrus”. Soon she’s over and safe, and it’s my turn to worry. I’m not in the ideal position to push off, but, inspired by Nikki, I just go for it and happily, it works. I pull myself up, getting my right knee over the edge and my left foot onto a rocky spur which gives me the purchase I need to complete the move, albeit no more gracefully.
We’re now on top of the castle wall, below which the grassy bank drops abruptly into the gully. The next challenge is to negotiate the crenellations. Graham grins, “You’ve done the hardest part, all of you have to do now is walk along the top of the pointy bits.”
It’s easier than it looks, yet just as exhilarating. Graham was slightly economical with the truth, however, in suggesting that all the hard bits were over. The spine culminates in the largest pinnacle and we regroup on top. The way off lies down a sloping slab which looks a little too smooth for comfort. There’s a large drop to the right. To ensure we are all secure during this traverse, Graham says we must change the order. I will go first, still belayed from the pinnacle. He’ll feed out just enough rope to get me over while negating the risk of falling far should I slip. He then hands me a sling to place over a boulder at the other end so we can belay him.
We survey the slab together. Graham points out that the direct route down to the rocky platform at the base is over the smoothest part of the slab, but by veering right, the rock is more broken and a couple of angled boulders act as steps off the face and on to the platform. There is no room for error here, however, as this way lies right above the chasm.
I turn in and, gripping tight with both hands, start to down climb, feeling around with my feet for holds. They prove hardest to find above the boulders. Persistence discovers the slightest of ledges, but the last reach backward on to the boulder is uncomfortably far, and I’m filled with the uneasy feeling of stepping off the rock into the void. After seconds that feel like minutes, my foot reaches the reassurance of solid rock, and I step down on to the boulder. From here, a simple sideways step gains the platform.
Nikki has watched and concluded that the boulder is a step too far for her, so she opts instead to tackle the smooth face head on. She must have donned her imaginary grippy tweeds, either that or the rock face is more finely ridged than it looks, as she affects what amounts to a very well controlled slide. Graham is impressed, and once we have secured the sling, he follows her route.
Between here and the top is another tower of irregular blocks, but hand and footholds abound, and the exposure is less extreme. This final section feels like child’s play compared to what we have just done.
At the top, I look back over the spiky magnificence of the ridge, rising like a fossilised dinosaur from the gully, and a warm radiance of elation washes over me. I have always thought the phrase, “conquering a mountain” reeks of misplaced arrogance, but I get it now. It’s not the physical mountain we are conquering, but the mental one born of our own doubts and misgivings. With expert guidance and shared know-how, with technique, teamwork, a little trial-and-error, and the invaluable assistance of imaginary footholds and grippy tweeds, such conquests are possible. Even for those with short legs, which apparently includes Nikki, although she can’t remember whether she’s mentioned it.
More Info / Further Reading
Find out more about Graham’s courses at:
https://www.grahamuneymountaineering.co.uk/
… or find him on Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/grahamuneymountaineering
Read about our Cairngorm adventures, learning Winter Skills with Hayley Webb Mountaineering:
