Flying Saucer over Catstycam
Forum » Walk Reports » Lake District
Yesterday, on the top of Catstycam (AW's preferred spelling), I was the victim of a violent assault. It happened like this:
It had been a mixed day of low cloud and intermittent sunshine. I'd climbed the long drag up Mires Beck, collapsed, exhausted when I realised that there was still another "hidden leg" across the breast of Birkhouse Moor, recovered sufficiently to bag Wanwright number 94 and then set off for Catstycam via the "Hole in the Wall".
It must have been at least ten years since I'd last been up here, and I had quite forgotten that you can't actually see Red Tarn from Birkhouse Moor. But it was easy going now to the outlet of Red Tarn Beck, and I was soon steadily attacking the excellent slanting path up to the hause below Swirral Edge. The lower slopes of Catstycam's western ridge were also easily overcome, and it seemed no time at all before I was looking up at the final summit pitch.
It was at this point that this undervalued hill - at 2917 feet, not far short of Hellvelyn itself - took the opportunity to remind me that it is actually a serious mountain.
Out of nowhere, a violent wind sprang up; the summit reared ahead, topped by a vicious snarl of sharp rocks, and it became a serious struggle to keep a footing on the narrow, winding route to the shattered summit cairn. If ever a cairn looked like it had just been struck by lightning, this was it. I wouldn't have been in the least bit surprised to find it still gently smouldering. Finding a sheltered nook, I relaxed and explored lunch options.
It was at this precise moment that the mountain struck. Out of nowhere, a violent whirlwind sucked my sunhat from my head and launched it a full 50 feet into the air.
Open-mouthed, I watched, mesmerised, as it opened out like a miniature flying saucer and began a series of aerobatic swoops out over the precipitous cliffs dropping to the north east over Glenridding Beck.
To appreciate the full scale of this disaster, you need to know that over the years I have cultivated the selection of mountaineering sunhats into a fine art. They have to be white, cheap, and of a generous fit. They have innumerable uses - towel, flannel and, in cases of emergency, handkerchief. On hot days, they can be soaked and worn dripping - a sort of personal, mobile refrigerator.
The hat now soaring above Glenridding Beck was by the finest of a long series, and I doubt I shall ever see its like again. As it disappeared into the mist, I comforted myself by recalling that this was, after all, the day on which SpaceX was launching its own bid for aerospace immortality, aiming to make Elon Musk a trillionaire. Who could reasonably deny my hat's bid to claim its own piece of history - albeit unintended?
Picking my way down the Eastern ridge, I peered hopelessly down the suicidally steep slopes into which it had disappeared. There was no sign. But somewhere, I'm sure it will have found a fresh role as compost for a crop of exotic alpine flora.
Here's a misty pic of my hat's resting place. It's up there, somewhere.
It had been a good and memorable day. Fortunately, I'd packed a spare hat.
Heh, there is a reason my Tilley sun hat has a chin strap and I make good use of it ...
Participants in these activities should be aware of and accept these risks and be responsible for their own actions.