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An inverted L-shaped slash down the eastern flank of Lingmell, Pier’s Ghyll is said to be the most impressive gully in the Lake District. An old climbing guide book recommended that it be “best climbed on a hot day, with a large, jolly party.” Yet I was alone, and it was the end of February. Why? Because in decades of climbing and walking on the Cumbrian hills, I had never been here before. It had beckoned me on many occasions from across the screes of Great Gable, or while I gazed down from the summit of Lingmell, but I had not answered the call.

As I drove up Wasdale, the snowy tops of the Scafells peered around the edges of a cloud blanket, with something of the aspect of Himalayan giants, while the valley itself basked in a sunny, springtime warmth. The farmyard at Wasdale Head also hinted of spring, ducks flapping their wings excitedly and hens clucking in noisy anticipation. On turning the corner toward Sty Head, however, I stepped back into winter. The upper slopes at the head of the valley were buried in white, and sent a shivering breeze down toward me.

The Sty Head track rose above me to the left as I followed the bouldery bank of the stream, stopping every few minutes to gaze into the green pools that would have been so inviting in warmer weather. Steadily I gained height, passing the snow-line just where the stream veered to the right. I dropped down to the bed, and scrambled over boulders, my boots drumming on hollowed ice beneath which the river rushed loudly. Then, suddenly it seemed, I was in the Ghyll.

The walls reached up for perhaps fifty metres to each side of me, yet were so close together that in places I could touch both simultaneously. Snow clung to small ledges, from which an occasional tree sprouted. Ahead of me, a series of small waterfalls suggested that an ascent would not be easy.

I turned the first cataract by means of some snow-covered boulders on the left. A steep, icy gully cut through the wall above. The second waterfall proved more of a problem because, reluctant to wade through the pool beneath it, I was forced to make a few awkward moves on a cold, wet wall, before stepping onto the partly submerged rocks at the top. Just beyond was another fall, much higher, steeper and wetter, its top guarded by a large bulk of snow, beneath which water shot out and down to a deep pool, some five metres lower. A block of snow that had broken away from the upper mass floated, unmelting, in the pool. I decided that this was my limit for the day, and after a sandwich and a cup of hot soup I yielded to discretion and retreated.

Two months later, the scene was changed. A real spring had replaced the false one of February, and while snow seemed unwilling to desert the summits, the hillsides were in bloom, and daffodils waved on the slopes around the farm. The melting snows, however, left a legacy, for the volume of water coursing down Pier’s Ghyll was now much greater. On reaching my previous high point, I began to feel that yet again I would be defeated. Not wishing to abandon the attempt without making some effort, I searched for an alternative to a very cold bath. The result proved to be an expedition of the most tremendous fun.

I scrambled up a few grassy ledges on the left wall, and after about 15 metres, came across a piton firmly lodged in the centre of a slab of rock. I pulled a rope out of my rucksack, fixed this to the peg, and abseiled back down to a convenient point from which I began to pendulum back and forth above the pool. At the third swing, I had enough momentum to reach the boulder at the top of the waterfall. I grabbed this and scrambled up to a standing position. Only my right leg, from the knee down, was wet.

Retrieving the rope caused a short delay, but I soon had it coiled and was once again stepping over pools and up cataracts. The climbing itself posed no difficulties, the only problem being how to keep out of the water. At one point, a wetting was unavoidable, so I quickly waded knee-deep through a pool and bridged up the waterfall beyond. The walls of the chasm opened out, yet still towered high over the bed. The hiss and boom of the water, cascading through channel and over boulder, resonated in the confines of the Ghyll, and took on a hypnotic quality as I progressed.

I reached the first patch of the winter’s snow just as the Bridge Rock came into view. An enormous boulder, it must have fallen from the crags above, jamming itself across the gully to form an arch at the place where Pier’s Ghyll turns to the left. A few yards short of the Bridge, another high waterfall blocked the way. For the second time, I felt that I might have to retreat. The volume of water rushing down between the walls was huge, and its mass alone would have prevented any ascent. Yet again, however, a piton, old and rusty, but quite soundly placed high on the right wall, came to the rescue, and another short pendulum landed me dry-shod above the water. I sat for several minutes on top of the Bridge Rock, then for several more beyond it, gazing through the natural window at what must be one of the most awesome views in this area noted for spectacle.

The upper part of the Ghyll was filled with hard-packed snow, firm and deep enough to support my weight as I kicked steps up it. While this made the ascent much easier than if it had been absent, I was constantly unnerved by the deep roar of water rushing through icy caverns beneath my feet, and by the reverberations I could feel each time I paused for a rest. Gradually, the walls on either side shrank and the sky opened out. The roar of the river subsided to a bubbling sibilance.

Once again on the open hillside, I was met by sunshine, and a silence that now seemed strange. Snow patches glinted in the bright light, and the voices of passing walkers carried for a great distance in the stillness.

I had the feeling that my ascent of Pier’s Ghyll was, in many ways, unique. The conditions that prevailed would not be reproduced on any other day. There might be more water or less splashing between its walls. A greater or a lesser amount of snow would make a difference, as would an alteration in its consistency. Had I taken the advice offered by the guidebook, I would have accomplished an entirely different climb, and one which I feel might have been less memorable, or less full of variety and what I could only describe as simple fun. But then, I suppose the same can be said of any climb?

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