The climb to the peak of England, Scafell Pike, starts at a great lake, Wast Water. A road winds around the perimeter, which is checkered by wandering sheep and wayward campervans. As you climb, the enormity of the lake becomes increasingly apparent. Mountains rise up around on all sides forming a bowl-like crater. It's clear you are entering the territory of the highest fells in the Lake District.
Halfway up one of the crater’s inner edges were a handful of brave rock climbers. We stared on in disbelief as they tackled the sheer rock face unfazed. Their laughter echoed down from above as if Scafell Pike itself was tickled by their ascent, like ants running over your arm.
Soon the trail forks. Choosing the right-hand scramble over the left-hand ramble, we continued on and up whilst slip-sliding on the scree underfoot. At a bottleneck in the route, we were met by a group of burly cigar-wielding men who seemed giddy from the success of their summit. As we burst through the smoggy debris left in their wake, spectacular birds-eye views open up. The lake was now a puddle. The surrounding mountains reduced to lumpy hills: like the earth’s scarred acne. Mystical highlights and lowlights, caused by cloud overhead, played on the mountains like reflections in a swimming pool.
Reaching the summit of Scafell Pike revealed more of the Lake District’s beauty and, taking a detour to the right on the descent, took us past a gargantuan ravine, Piers Gill. It looked as if an earthquake had once violently ripped apart the rock from the inside-out. It was an awing spectacle.
We reached the lakeside far below as night fell, casting a serene rosy tint over the water. We sat and watched a heron perching proudly on the shoreline for a while. What I'd give to be able to fly over those fells...
Words & Photography: Scott Norris (@_scott_norris) // summer 2014