Peak running
I'm surrounded by thick snow. The trail along with the horizon is no longer visible. A white world lays before me, broken only by the stark black pine tree tops and brooding rocky outcrops. Gale force winds hurl handfuls of hard ice pellets into my face. A clap of thunder causes my heart to skip a beat and echoes out around the valleys below. Visibility is minimal. This is the roaring heart of the snow storm and it has come early.
Just an hour into a run along the Pennine Trail, I was beginning to accept that simply surviving to run another day would be a success. Bleaklow was certainly living up to its name. My bare legs were covered in ice crystals, my feet, soaked through from the boggy terrain, were numb, as were my fingers as they fumbled with my phone seeking to check for a signal.
Thankfully, I wasn't alone. Matt S was by my side and I knew he had experience in these hills. Had I been on my own I would have been very worried, but I took comfort both in having a companion by my side, and the fact that he had the skills to get us to safety. This was only the Peak District, but it could have been the polar regions for all the difference it made to me.
We kept moving. Standing still was not an option. In these temperatures with a wind chill of -10 it was vital that we maintained our core temperature. Which direction to head? How long would it take to reach a place of safety? How long would the storm last? So many questions, very few answers.
Our day had begun pleasantly enough. Blue sky and sunshine greeted us as we headed through Glossop towards the hills. We were in t-shirts, but had packed layers, first aid kit and food. We were prepared for anything and were not expecting a change in conditions until later in the day. According to the Met Office snow was on the way mid to late afternoon. Plenty of time for a 27 mile loop in the spring sunshine.
Once we had left the grey stone buildings behind we began to climb. Up past broken down stone walls and small snow drifts yet to melt in the cold air. In the distance we could see hill tops dusted with snow, but the trails beneath us were clear and firm despite heavy rain the night before.
We reached the top of Cock Hill after climbing for 1000 feet. From there we continued to gain elevation as we headed onto the Pennine Way for the next ten miles. Behind us dark grey clouds were building. Snow seemed to be coming sooner rather than later. We still had panoramic views over the moors and surrounding valleys, but visibility was reducing fast. The temperature had fallen and both of us were now wearing our thick layers and gloves.
Thick snow lay all around and running was impossible. We picked our way forward between the bracken and long thick tufts of grass. Gritstone boulders were scattered haphazardly over the hill top. Every step could lead to an injury. Streams ran beside us and occasionally beneath us. Holes appeared along the path and the ice topped snow would occasionally give out and send a leg two feet deep endangering ankles and knees and knocking us off balance. It was slow progress. Meanwhile the dark clouds descended.
Soon we were enveloped in a white blizzard. Legs and cheeks were stung by the ice crystals as they smashed against us in the gale force winds. Thunder rolled above like the roar of jet engines. Here we were, no more than six miles into a marathon distance and already our pace was glacial. Placing one foot in front of the other we trudged onward encouraging one another between the claps of thunder and incessant howling of the wind. Now over Torside Clough we were at the heart of Bleaklow at 2000 feet. Desolate, wild, dangerous.
Gradually we became aware of a brightening and the thunder began to move away. Within minutes the sun was breaking through. The wind lessened, the snow stopped and, like a white curtain being drawn back, the breath taking view was revealed. With blue sky above us and distant mountains again within view we laughed and relaxed, relieved that we had seen the storm through.
We managed to find our way back to the path, large slabs of stone laid out end to end, covered in icy puddles which we joyfully splashed our way through heading towards Devil's Dike. Arriving at Snake Pass we met a hiker who was beginning a 16 day walk along the Pennine Way, camping and carrying all his kit on his back. We wished him luck and pushed on past Featherbed Top, trying to make up for lost time. Heads down, pulling our hoods forward to block to newly arrived hail, we ran on and on in silence until we reached the foot of Kinder Scout.
The weather had taken a turn for the worse again with horizontal snow and gusts of over 40 mph. However, without the thunder, and having been through the battering once before and lived to tell the tale, I was feeling more confident. Although we had agreed to stop if one of us couldn't go on, it was clear we both wanted to achieve our goal, the full loop of 27 miles back to Glossop.
It was hands on knees time again to hike up the 300 feet to the top of the ridge. More giant gritstone outcrops provided stunning scenery when the blizzards cleared, allowing long views back down the valleys towards Manchester which we occasionally glimpsed in the distance, the high rise towers a world away from the remote landscape we found ourselves inhabiting for the day.
At Kinder Downfall we crossed the river on slippery stones as the copper tinted water plummeted down the crevice between the hills, icicles hanging in its wake. There were a couple of solo walkers here who we greeted. We fuelled and then ran on, continuing to stick to the stone slabs that lined the path. We stopped atop Kinder Scout before continuing past Kinder Low and Jacob's Ladder on towards Brown Knoll. Up and over and then down through farmland past sheep huddled together from the elements, too occupied with eating straw to worry about two southerners in shorts jogging by.
The River Sett roared and frothed beside us as it guided our journey into the village of Hadfield. By now we were both exhausted and stopped in the Post Office for some sustenance. Energised by the food, but thrown buy the urban setting, we took the Sett Trail with ten miles to go. A Bullfinch appeared beside our path, its bright red plumage mirroring our snow pounded cheeks and freezing knees. Redwings skimmed across our path and an array of mosses, lichen and fungi displayed itself in among the leafless trees.
We passed the overflow reservoir that we had looked down upon from the heights, and climbed over numerous styles, our aching limbs protesting. The footpath took us into a field of horses. The only way out of the field was to cross the thick mud and horse poo. We walked through the ankle deep excrement cursing the farmer for placing the feed beside the gate.
Another climb drained our already weary legs. The snow and wind had abated, but by now we were empty shells, our only mantra was 'one foot in front of the other'. We were determined to make it back. Ten miles became nine, then eight, seven then six. Just two more parkruns to go. We had been out since 9.30am and it was now gone four in the afternoon.
Eventually we arrived at the quarries above Glossop and admired the view down to our destination from The Nab. The sun was setting in the distance.
The descent was slippery and both of us were failing to put the brakes on as we headed down the waterlogged hill. Matt's feet left the ground, and before either of us knew it, he was sliding his way to the bottom on his stomach, laughing all the way.
As we approached our final destination, cold, wet, covered in mud and exhausted we both agreed it had been an adventure and a significant accomplishment given the conditions. The only question was where to head next....
