THE THREE SUMMITEERS

‘You must be bloody joking!’

What had so incensed Stan, usually such a mild-mannered old chap? An innocent, throw-away remark from his nephew had lit the blue touch paper and he was now on a roll. ‘Tom, are you seriously suggesting that Gary Barlow is in the same league as Paul McCartney?’ he spluttered. ‘If so, I strongly suggest you listen to any song from any of my Beatles records and you’ll soon change your tune and incidentally, tune is something Barlow’s voice has never been in!’

Pleased with his witticism, Stan calmed down and tried to recall when he’d first fallen for the Fab Four. “Penny Lane” was the song and the 14-year-old Stan had first heard it in 1967, while lying in bed at Carlisle City General Hospital.

Rewinding 56 years, Stan recalled how he’d ended up in that predicament.  

Seemed like a good idea

He’d been best friends with Ian and Clive at primary school, but Clive had grown steadily apart from the other two when his upwardly mobile parents sent him away to a private school, while the others, having failed their 11 plus, were consigned to a secondary modern, cruelly labelled “factory fodder” at such a ridiculously young age.

The three now only met occasionally, during school holidays and it was on one such occasion that Clive suggested an Easter trip to the Lake District. Stan and Ian initially resisted the idea, with Stan summing up the feelings of both, ‘why would we want to freeze our balls off getting piss wet in the Lakes when we could be enjoying ourselves in Blackpool?’

Stan’s holidays were usually spent in Blackpool, Rhyl or some other northern seaside resort, while Ian’s slightly better off parents ventured to Spain on recently fashionable package tours. Walking was not something people did for pleasure at any of these destinations, unless it was an expedition to the bar, fairground or beach.

Clive’s holidays were different and involved walking tours in British national parks or the French Alps. He was far more confident and articulate than the other two, his eloquence enhanced by private education and the elocution lessons his mother deemed essential for one she believed destined for greatness. Sadly, the outcome of these lessons was a curious mix of home counties and north Lancashire, a curious cross between Eric Morecambe and Stephen Fry. Despite sounding faintly ridiculous, he was persuasive and he quickly enticed the other two with assurances that ‘a camping trip to the Lakes will be a marvellous experience’ and that ‘there are many pubs up there that will serve beer to 14-year-olds and lots of lovely Westmorland totty who might well ………’  

Stan interrupted Clive before he had time to enlighten them as to what said “totty” might well do. ‘Alright Clive, we’ll go.’ While muttering ‘public school twat’ under his breath. It’s fair to say that Stan didn’t have much time for Clive and his high-flown ways these days.

Like Clive, Stan and Ian enthusiastically expressed interest in girls, but in reality, they had little understanding of what it was they “might well” do: their passion was football and they had little experience of the opposite sex, although they pretended otherwise in the company of Clive. As an early starter, Clive certainly did know what girls might do, having had a few girlfriends he’d met at the Young Conservatives, no doubt attracted by his charm and rugby player’s physique. As Stan was increasingly apt to say ‘he’s alright, if you like smarm’.

Be prepared!

Having agreed that a long weekend (or, if Clive were to be believed, a bacchanalian orgy with the odd walk thrown in) in the Lakes was a runner, thoughts turned to kit. Once again, Clive was happy to offer his unsolicited advice. ‘I get most of my gear from Ellis Brigham’ he boasted, ‘but occasionally I slum it and buy from Blacks of Greenock.’ Stan and Ian perused the catalogues of these two up-market retailers and quickly decided that their high-end products were well beyond their means. Stan’s dad advised that ‘tha doesn’t need to spend a fortune son’ and suggested the Famous Army Stores – who sold army surplus and other budget-priced kit – on the strength of having bought workwear from there for his labouring job at Heysham docks. Following this advice, Stan bought a pair of walking shoes, the cheapest footwear available, while Ian’s budget stretched to a pair of army-surplus boots. The clothing they bought from the same supplier was of similar bargain-basement quality.

Clive had a tent for his sole use, a top of the range (naturally) Saunders Jetpacker. The other two were sharing and acquired what looked like a perfectly serviceable tent, again from the Famous Army Stores.

A promising start

So, fully equipped, they set out from Lancaster on a sunny, crystal-clear morning, taking the 555 bus to Ambleside then the single-decker to their campsite by the Old Dungeon Ghyll Hotel, situated in glorious isolation at the head of Great Langdale.

Stan’s only previous visit to the Lakes had been on an “8 Lakes” coach tour with his grandma. Since it had poured down all day, it’s not surprising that he’d vowed never to set foot in this misty, wet and cheerless place ever again. Today though, as the bus passed Elterwater and he caught a glimpse of the craggy, sun kissed Langdale Pikes in all their glory, he felt something he’d never felt before – this place looked like a different world when it wasn’t raining and while he couldn’t put it into words, he wondered if he might just have been wrong to write off the Lakes.  

Surrounded by the lofty fells that encircle the head of Langdale and with the afternoon sun raising their spirits, they erected the tents without much cursing, the operation being directed by a super-confident Clive. His endless prompts finally drove Stan beyond breaking point and he advised him to ‘shove your tent pegs and preferably the pole as well, up your big arse.’

 Not the sort of language Clive heard at his elocution lessons.

The frosty atmosphere gradually thawed and they decided to chance their (drinking) arm in the climbers’ bar at the Old Dungeon Ghyll. Ian, a shy and nervous boy at the best of times, refused to order the drinks, protesting that ‘they’ll know we’re under-age and call the police. My mum and dad will kill me if I end up with a criminal record.’ 

‘Shut up, you spineless wuss’ was Clive’s sympathetic reply, ‘if you’re too bloody soft, I’ll do it myself,’ proclaimed the future City whiz kid.  With that he strode purposefully to the bar, returning with three pints of Jennings Best.

The anticipated night of drunken debauchery did not materialise, however, as there seemed to be a distinct shortage of the willing Lakeland beauties Clive had promised. Instead, while supping their third pint, they met a gnarly old hiker, who’s beard and grey hair made him look like a venerable mountain goat and who sat himself down uninvited at their table.

‘Where are you lads bound tomorrow?’ Enquired the old man of the hills.

Immediately commandeering the conversation Clive informed him ‘we’re thinking of doing the Langdale Pikes. I’ve done them many times with my parents.’   

‘Aye, you could do that, posh lad,’ said the old fella, ‘but, if you really want a challenge, Scafell Pike, England’s highest mountain, is easily accessible from here.’  He made it sound a gentle stroll, ‘straight down the valley, up Rossett Gill, turn left just past Angle Tarn to Esk Hause, past Great End, over Broad Crag then, Bob’s your uncle, it’s plain sailing to the top.’ He paused, ‘and by the way, what part of the country are you from young ‘un? I’ve never heard an accent like that before. Have you got a speech impediment or summat?’

Stan and Ian were not convinced of the feasibility of this proposition. ‘We haven’t really done much fell walking,’ said Ian, wildly exaggerating the amount that they’d actually done.

Clive jumped in aggressively, which was his default setting these days ‘you’re so negative: I’m sure we can manage it easily under my leadership.’

The old bloke agreed, but warned ‘the forecast isn’t great, so you’ll need good waterproofs and boots that give a bit o’ grip.’ Clive assured him that they were ‘incredibly well equipped,’ casually mentioning his ‘Helly Hansen waterproof and Scarpa boots with Vibram soles.’ Stan and Ian remained silent on this subject, having no idea what a Helly Hansen was and Stan conceding that he ‘wouldn’t know a Vibram sole if I fell over one.’

Elation

Saturday dawned and after a long, frustrating struggle to light their primus stove, the lads enjoyed a hearty breakfast of bacon and egg under a dull grey sky. Clive assured them that ‘I’ve seen many mornings like this and it always improves as the day goes on.’ In this optimistic mood they set off along Mickleden, the long valley at the head of Langdale that leads to Rossett Gill.

As they huffed, puffed and cursed their way up the long, steep climb alongside the gill, it suddenly dawned on Stan and Ian that football training was no preparation for mountain hiking. Once he’d got his head up and his breath back beside Angle Tarn though, Stan had time to look around – the towering, rocky peaks and the views down an emerald green, lush Langdale were a revelation to him. He’d had no idea that such captivating scenery lay so close to home.

Stan didn’t have time for much rest and reflection though before Clive mustered “his” group for the next phase of their expedition. ‘Onward and upward’ he commanded jauntily and not a little annoyingly. Gazing at the map before he moved off, he exuded a (as it happens, misplaced) confidence that reassured his companions. Little did they know that the map was a “Shell” road map and his deliberations mainly involved looking out for a group of older hikers who seemed to be going their way and then following them. The truth was that on family hikes his dad – a man as controlling as his son – did all the navigation. 

On they tramped, on easier ground now, in the wake of Clive’s guiding stars, as he regaled his mates with tales of intrepid adventures with his family and school cadet corps: not something they had at Stan and Ian’s secondary modern. Unfortunately, Clive had paid no attention when the cadet corps had been taught navigation, following what became a lifelong practice of not troubling himself with the detail and, wherever possible, getting others to do the hard graft. 

The two inexperienced hikers found the going tough, never having walked this far on such rough ground before, but they both appreciated the views. As they crossed the boulder field below Broad Crag, before the final steep and rocky climb to the summit of Scafell Pike, Stan noticed ominously dark clouds gathering in the western sky and the view was now nowhere near as extensive as it had been. Clive remained upbeat though, promising that ‘it will blow over quickly.’  

All the boys felt the sense of elation that comes with attaining a hard-won summit, especially one as celebrated as Scafell Pike and asked a fellow summiteer to take their photo with Stan’s dad’s Kodak Instamatic.

Desolation

As they set off back the way they’d come, the clouds continued to gather. By the time they were on the path that skirts round Great End they could see little except an impenetrable grey wall of cloud and feel only the damp, cloying, cold drizzle that swirled around them. Stan and Ian expressed concern over their situation, but Clive was happy to have latched onto another group of walkers who appeared intermittently through the mist and who he felt were bound to lead them to salvation at the Old Dungeon Ghyll. Where else could they possibly be going?

Eskdale, that’s where! By the time our intrepid trio had finally lost touch with Clive’s beacons of hope, they were unwittingly dropping down into upper Eskdale, it was raining heavily and they were now starting to feel very cold.  

The hitherto unflappable Clive was getting a bit worried, but didn’t allow it to show as he told himself that they must be heading towards Rosset Gill, which would lead them down to a hot shower, dry tent and a pint in the pub. As they stumbled onwards, it gradually dawned on him that Rosset Gill did not seem to be where it should be and he began to panic inwardly, but still tried to rally his troops, ‘come on lads, I think we’ve gone slightly adrift here but fear not, if it goes dark we can navigate by the stars.’  

Stan was not daft and he was certainly not impressed, ‘that’s a lot of bloody use when we’re stuck in a cloud in the pissing rain, you ponce’. He assured Clive that ‘if you don’t stop talking shite, the only stars you’ll be seeing is when I lamp you one.’ He completed his tirade by advising Clive that he could ‘stick your corps where the sun don’t shine.’

Clive was deeply offended, ‘there’s no need to adopt that tone, Stan, I’m jolly well doing my level best here.’

Stan and Ian lost faith in their self- appointed leader at about the same time they lost faith in their “waterproof” jackets. Stan was faring worst in the waxed cotton anorak he’d bought from the Famous Army Store, which was sodden, shipping water alarmingly and unbearably clammy inside. Ian’s “Pakamac” kept him a bit drier, but by now had ceased to deserve the name “waterproof” and would have been more at home in a shower on Blackpool’s golden mile than near the “roof of England”. Clive had boasted of his bright orange, neoprene coated, Helly Hansen anorak, but even he was feeling damp. The days of staying comfortable and dry in a downpour in breathable, genuinely waterproof fabrics were in the future.  

Clive wore a Berghaus fleece jacket under his anorak and while this was soaked through with condensation it kept him warmer than Stan and Ian who had relied on their school jumpers. On their feet they wore football socks, which did little to keep their feet warm: at least Clive had proper walking socks. Stan’s grandad had told him tales of getting trench foot on the Somme: as the water lapped over the top of his walking shoes, he understood what the old lad had been through.

By now they’d lost any semblance of a path and as darkness approached, the truth gradually dawned on Clive – they were lost. He decided that he’d better give the others the good news. ‘Look chaps, I really don’t have a clue where we are and I must say I’m getting a bit worried about our chances of getting back to the campsite tonight. Don’t worry though, if we just keep walking downhill, I’m sure we’ll reach safety.’  

Clive fondly clung to the belief that they were close to Rossett Gill and would soon hit the right path: the gradient had eased a little, which was encouraging, however, the running water he could hear above the roar of the storm was not Rossett Gill, but the nascent River Esk.

‘Don’t be so bloody daft’ said Stan, ‘we didn’t tell anyone where we were going and even if we had we’re obviously not where we should be are we, you stupid, jumped-up twerp.’

At this, Clive’s bottom lip began to quiver, as layers of bravado fell away to reveal a frightened, lost schoolboy. He fell silent.

Stan didn’t panic. He wasn’t going to let a mountain beat him and told the other two to ‘stop and we’ll try and find somewhere to sit out the storm.‘ They found a group of rocks that offered a modicum of shelter, but by now  they’d eaten all their food, drunk all their drink and were all shivering. None of them had heard of hypothermia, but if they had they would have recognised its onset.

Things were not looking good. There were no mobile phones to summon assistance in those days, but there were torches and whistles, although the hapless trio didn’t have any of those either. The only blessing as far as Stan could see was that Clive wasn’t saying much now.

Ian wasn’t saying much either, although he was suffering – he was cold, wet and could see little through the thick, misted up lenses of his national health specs. He had been very quiet while Clive’s confident facade gently crumbled, but now, as the fear surfaced, he began to sob uncontrollably. ‘Pull yourself together man,’ said Clive

‘And you shut the fuck up’ exploded Stan, ‘Ian’s doing alright, aren’t you mate? And let me remind you, clever dick, we wouldn’t be in this mess if you’d not exaggerated your experience on the hills. So just button it’. Stan had always felt protective towards Ian, who he knew had an unhappy home life with parents who seemed to be constantly at loggerheads, leaving little time for their son. Stan often reflected that, while Ian had more foreign holidays and a nice house and car, they didn’t compensate for the love in Stan’s home.

Petulantly, Clive protested ‘I’ve told you; I’ve done my level best and it’s rather unfair of you to criticise me.’

‘It’s about time someone did, you pompous git. And why don’t you remember where you came from and stop talking in that ridiculous, stupid accent, it’s neither one thing nor t’other and really annoys me.’

There then followed a period of what might be called quiet contemplation.

Realisation and salvation

Meanwhile, back in the pub, the old bloke who’d suggested this ill-fated expedition was happily sinking his sixth pint of Bass. ‘I wonder what happened to those three lads who were in here last night’ he said to his drinking buddies. ‘I expected them to be here celebrating their success by now.’

He thought nothing more of it until, unsteadily stumbling across the campsite, he noticed there were no rucksacks or boots under the flysheets of their tents. This suggested they hadn’t returned, a fact confirmed by unzipping the tent flaps.

Reluctant to raise the alarm, he went back to the pub to discuss the situation with his mates. The consensus was to wait a while in case the lads had just underestimated the time required and would return safely in the dark. When they’d not appeared after another hour, he called mountain rescue.

The Langdale Ambleside Mountain Rescue Team (MRT) were on the scene quickly and questioned the sozzled old hiker about the lads’ intentions. He did his best, but couldn’t be of much help: he thought they might have followed his suggestion to climb Scafell Pike, but equally they could have stuck with their original plan to walk the Langdale Pikes.

Where to start? Bill, the MRT leader, decided they were far more likely to have been benighted attempting Scafell Pike than on the more easily navigable Langdale Pikes. Because their route would straddle the areas of two MRTs he alerted the Wasdale team, who cover Eskdale as well.

Because of the group’s inexperience and the worsening weather, Bill also requested assistance from the RAF MRT’s helicopter in Lossiemouth, these being the days before the RAF service was withdrawn. In such foul weather the helicopter was operating at its limits, but managed to make it to the Lakes and landed at Wasdale Head, awaiting further instructions.

The Langdale team based their search on the boys’ supposed route and headed up Rossett Gill in driving rain. The Wasdale team, assuming the lads hadn’t walked over the summit of Scafell Pike and descended into Wasdale – in which case they’d probably have got down in one piece, albeit in the wrong valley – headed to Eskdale, where they knew the boys could easily have wandered on their descent in bad weather, especially if – as seemed likely- they had negligible navigation skills.

The three lost souls had not moved from their sheltering rocks, but they were now frozen and soaking wet – even Clive, in his much-vaunted Helly Hansen. Ian was shivering uncontrollably as Clive started rambling on about not wanting to ‘die on a miserable mountain’ when he had ‘so much he wanted to achieve in his life’: all his earlier enthusiasm now evaporated.

Stan kept a level head and was convinced that these mountains – which he thought were the most beautiful things he’d ever seen just this morning – could not harm him. He didn’t know any campfire songs, never having been in the Scouts, but he tried to lift his mates’ spirits by getting them to join in a few current chart hits. Sadly “Release me” and “Something stupid,” though apt in the circumstances, did nothing to buck them up.

‘Do shut up, you fool’ said Clive, who was in no mood to offer a more uplifting ditty.

‘Look’, said Stan, ‘worst comes to worst, we’ll hang on here until dawn then find our way down to the valley, where there’s bound to be someone to help us.’

Meanwhile, the Wasdale MRT received a call from one of the unwitting pied pipers Clive had followed, to say they were concerned about a group of youngsters they’d spotted, apparently wandering aimlessly, in misty upper Eskdale. So, that’s where the MRT headed.

Upper Eskdale is wild country at the best of times, but on a night like this was definitely somewhere you didn’t want to be. The team drove to Brotherikeld, at the foot of Hardknott Pass, from where they headed up the River Esk, listening out for whistles or shouts and watching for flashlights. The going was slow in such foul weather over very boggy ground and they were tired and frustrated by the time they passed below Slight Side. They were now amongst the highest mountains in England: with Scafell Pike towering on one side and Bow Fell and Esk Pike to the other.   

Just as they were giving up hope of finding the boys, one of the team thought he heard shouting. He silenced his team-mates and listened again: yes, he could hear voices and they seemed to be engaged in a heated argument. They spread out to conduct a search and quickly came across three cold, wet, hungry and bedraggled boys.

They were clearly in a bad way: the medic determined that hypothermia was setting in and concluded that in their state it would be dangerous to try and walk them down the valley. Before resigning themselves to a long stretcher-carry, the team leader radioed the man holding the fort at Brotherikeld who in turn used a land line to get in touch with the helicopter crew at Wasdale Head. Fortunately, the weather had eased sufficiently for the pilot to decide that a flight to upper Eskdale was possible.

It didn’t take long for the helicopter to reach the casualties – which was just as well since they were now in a critical state. After being made comfortable, they were loaded onto the chopper for the short flight to Carlisle City General Hospital.

The lads were relieved but quiet on the journey. Slowly, Clive recovered a little of his misplaced confidence and began regaling the others with how he would have ‘got you two down safely if the MRT hadn’t appeared.’

‘Clive, are you forgetting that we were there too’, said Stan. ‘Please just shut up and let’s all concentrate on getting sorted out’.

Aftermath

Once in the hospital, they were indeed quickly “sorted out”.

While recovering, Stan switched on his radio – largely to avoid listening to Clive – and heard a song that had just been released by a group he’d hitherto paid no attention to. “Penny Lane” was really catchy and he resolved to listen to more of this Beatles stuff when he got home.

Clive did perform one useful function at the hospital: he rang his dad who made the long journey on the A6 over Shap in his Ford Consul to collect them.

Once home – despite unsympathetically pointing out that ‘nobody forced you to do it’ – Stan’s mum did mollycoddle him, putting him to bed with a hot-water bottle, while his grandma made a hot toddy, her universal remedy for any ailment.

Each of the lads reacted differently to their fellside-fiasco.

For Ian the mountains were forever fearsome places to be avoided: he never would understand how anyone could enjoy getting cold, wet and tired climbing up a muddy hill. He’s been perfectly happy in a loving family of his own and now, after retiring from his job as a council officer, enjoys more time holidaying at his apartment in Majorca.

Clive’s reaction was similar, but only as regards British mountains: he has spent many happy hours on the piste and on the piss, shamelessly chatting-up chalet maids young enough to be his daughter.  When he’s not cheer-leading for Boris Johnson and the disciples that follow him, he still does occasional consultancy work in the City. 

For Stan it was different. Far from putting him off the Lakeland hills forever, the experience opened his eyes to a new world – he’d helplessly fallen for the fells. When not following his career as a social worker, he’s explored high places throughout the world, accumulating a mass of memories of good times with his wife and the many friends he’s made. In the odd period when he’s felt down for one reason or another, the mountains have always been there to work their magic by lifting his spirits and giving him that “good to be alive” feeling.

Now, at 70 and despite all the aches and pains, he’s still dragging himself up and down big hills – albeit much slower and with a lot more cursing than in his prime. To celebrate his 70^th he took his nephew Tom up Scafell Pike, by Grains Gill and the Corridor Route not ‘that boring bloody motorway up the tourist path.’ In the pub afterwards he selected “Penny Lane” on the old retro juke box, remarking how the Beatles had ‘stood the test of time.’

‘Bit like you uncle Stan’, said Tom. ‘Is there any decent music, like Take That, on there.  

‘There’s just no hope for you, lad!’ said Stan.