With snow and ice forecast over high ground, I kitted up in full winter gear, adding micro-spikes, crampons, and my ice axe to the pack, which landed on my back with a thud. My Osprey pack does a fine job of distributing weight, but it still felt like carrying a six year old on my shoulders. At exactly 6:20am I locked the car and set off. Not a sound stirred as I walked the white lines toward Patterdale Hotel, its gable lit by a single floodlight. The guests were no doubt still asleep as I passed through the grounds to the gate at the rear which opened onto the frozen track leading into Glenamara Park. Within minutes I'd stepped into the darkness, the kind that takes a moment to settle into so I stopped, switched off my head torch, and let my eyes adjust. Boredale Hause stood silhouetted to the east and the lights of Glenridding glowed brightly to the north. After a minute I flicked the torch back on and continued along the track, dodging frozen puddles where I could. Soon I reached a wall broken by a gated stile, the point where the ascent of Arnison Crag began.

I reached the far side of the ice without issue and continued onto the summit plateau, passing a couple with a Cairn Terrier trotting between them. The sight of it made me think of Brad and Holly back home, probably on their sixth nap of the morning, waiting for Dad to get home so they could drag him out for a walk later.

The descent from Fairfield had been relatively quick, and once I reached the stone staircase I hooked a right and began to flank Grisedale Tarn, still amazed at how quiet the place was. The path along the eastern shore was coated in thick ice and there was no let-up until I reached the outflow, where I dipped the tips of my poles into the water in a half-hearted attempt to free them from the ice. It would take a while. I'd followed a solo walker around the tarn, and by now she'd settled among a cluster of boulders, sipping from a flask in the midday sun. For a moment I wondered if I should stop too, if only to take on some fuel, but when I'm walking solo I prefer to keep moving. So I left the outflow behind and began the long descent toward Ruthwaite Lodge, encountering what felt like miles of of ice, bare rock, and repeat. I was still wearing the micro-spikes and told myself I'd only take them off once I reached the lodge, but the pain in the balls of my feet was becoming less than comfortable and the lodge couldn't come soon enough. I passed a couple who looked like they'd stepped straight off the front cover of a mountaineering magazine. They asked about my route, explained they were doing the same in reverse, and I spent the next five minutes answering questions about conditions in rapid fire fashion.

The couple thanked me warmly before continuing. Ruthwaite Lodge was deserted when I arrived, and I chose my throne, a good sized boulder on the gable end where I dropped my pack and finally removed the spikes. Left first, then right. The right calf tensed as I pulled but I managed to control it and tried again. No pain the second time. I stood to unclip my DSLR, only to lose my grip on it and Instinct kicked in: I flicked out my right foot like a footballer controlling a pass, the camera bouncing off my boot before dropping to the ground. The lens was caked in grassy dew, but the hood had taken the hit and a quick wipe with my neck gaiter had it gleaming again. I still had three miles to go, but at least the ice was behind me and I could curl my toes into the tips of my boots as I walked. In those three miles I passed two young lads near the footbridge over Grisedale Beck, and after that it felt like I had the whole valley to myself. The blue skies were fading, replaced by high white cloud that kept the temperature up as I made my way through the valley. When Grisedale Lane finally came into view, I turned around for a final look at Eagle Crag below Nethermost Cove, and above it, the last pale patch of blue sky lingering above Nethermost Pike.