words by Elizabeth Stephenson
Snow crunches softly under my boots as I hop between frozen and not-so-frozen bog.
After an hour of taking the ropes for a walk we’re about to find out if a) we should buy a dog to walk instead or b)Kinder is likely to be climbable. Rounding the umpteenth bend of a river bearded with icicles, I see my partner Sam grinning back at me from round the corner, our gamble has paid off – the downfall is draped in swathes of ice, glinting at us in the (rather unfortunately bright) midday light.
Another forty-five minutes later and we are finally at the base of the downfall. It’s dripping in the sun but looking promising and well formed. Another chap is at the bottom; however, a reluctant second means we are the only pair to rack and rope up. I look Sam square in the face and do my usual ‘are you sure about this?’ and ‘should we be climbing it?’. Reassuringly, he calms my nerves.
The familiar routine of “OK you’re on belay, Sam” and “climbing” ring out across the ice.
Given his much greater experience of ice climbing Sam took the sharp end of the rope – I’ve led a bit of mixed climbing in Scotland but working on my confidence leading in winter is a key aim of mine this season and the coming years. It’s hard when there aren’t many female winter climbers – I know there are others of course, but it has an impact when you’re in the minority out in the snow. I’m lucky that Sam has been a route into winter climbing for me, but a lot of women don’t have an easy way into the mountains, especially winter stuff, which, from an outside view can seem significantly more daunting than other types of climbing.
When I’ve gained a bit more experience and confidence in my ability, I hope to be able to encourage women I know into the mountains in winter. (I’m quite literally sh*t deep in a vet degree so no guiding aspirations for me but there are some fantastic female instructors working in winter.)
Back to the downfall – the initial corner wasn’t quite as well iced as normal but on the plus side that allowed Sam to get a hex in to the right and further up a solid bulldog (not the 4-legged type) that offered some protection for the first pitch. Reminding myself I’m not totally hopeless with a pair of tools, I set off after him, climbing delicately so as not to bring the route down on myself. Scratching around the right side for some hooks and testing out the ice quality I teetered delicately upwards – my hand me down Grivel crampons from my old school instructor serving me well, even if they are a little like climbing with miniature spades on my feet.
The belay sits part way up the downfall before you traverse across to the left and escape out the top corner – assessing the risk from the large icicles that looked like they’d give a decent go at blunt dissection if they came down, I positioned myself out the way as Sam set off on the second pitch. A good decision as one did come down part way through with startling force. Happily, I was safely tucked beyond its reach – a sharp reminder of the importance of good decision making when it comes to winter stuff and the unpredictable nature of the structures we climb on.
Once Sam had made it across and out the top corner, I dismantled the belay and scurried across the icicle fall zone to minimise the time spent in it, reaching the safety of the overhanging gritstone lip at the back of the falls – a calculated risk that I was comfortable taking but a risk nonetheless (I think my mother reads these, perhaps I should take that bit out…)
Winter climbing, especially ice climbing, is a fragile and fleeting pursuit.
With the season becoming less predictable it’s harder to get routes in good condition and often you are taking a punt on a route hoping it will pay off. When it does though, it’s worth every long slog with the ropes and axes. There’s something even more alluring about heading out for the day, not knowing if your plan will be possible. Perhaps you’ll get there and find turf or ice that disintegrates beneath your fingers and beat a hasty retreat, or maybe you’ll swing an axe in and be met with the reassuring thud of a beautiful placement that you’d hang your grandmother off (well sadly mine wouldn’t manage the walk in….).
Either way, the uncertainty of it is enthralling.
I’m fascinated by the shapes that form with the ice. On Kinder the icicles draped the amphitheatre in pearlescent white, the flow of the river momentarily paused, half hung over the rocks it normally dashes down – so temporary yet so beautiful. As we finished the route the sun sank low in the sky and the long shadows lit the ice with an internal fire – waiting for the night’s freeze to quench the flames.
Clambering over the top of the falls, a bitter wind rimed the top of our packs and froze the quickdraws solid.
If the wind didn’t manage it, the view over the Kinder plateau finished off the job of taking our breath away – Manchester and Bolton dazzling far off in the distance, inner city life feeling wholly detached from the wild winter refuge we had escaped to.
Breathing in the glacial air, I let it invade my lungs and prick my cheeks. It worms its way between the layers of wool thermals and escapes in my reflected breath – cold, crisp, clear, comforting. I feel overwhelming gratitude for a day spent in a beautiful place and the transformation of rushing water to immovable ice. I never undervalue the chance to experience nature and I cherish this most acutely in the depths of winter. I love this season, I delight in how fleeting winter can be, and it breaks my heart that climate change spells trouble for this ephemeral landscape.
But for now, I’ll dust off my axes and hope that this winter is just beginning.
