Category Archives: Hiking

The shimmering pool

Posted by Jenny in Hiking, Nature, Photography and tagged with , ,
The shimmering pool

The shimmering pool

Yesterday I explored a part of the Smokies I hadn’t visited before, between the main stateline ridge that the Appalachian Trail runs along and the vast stream valley of Big Creek. As I followed the Camel Gap trail, I came to a pool on Big Creek that is one of the most beautiful stream pools I have ever seen.

Pothole at the pool

Pothole at the pool

The colors of the water kept shifting. Phantasmagorical shapes glimmered beneath the surface, below the scribblings of light.

This part of the pool had lighter colors

This part of the pool has lighter colors…

...than this part

…than this part

The rocks had been sculpted and polished.

The rocks had been sculpted and polished.

This large pothole emptied into the main pool.

This large pothole empties into the main pool.

This time of year, much of the color has drained out of the forest. Perhaps most of the color migrates into the streams.

For a description of the whole 16-mile hike, go to  “Camel Gap loop” on my Endless Streams and Forests blog.

Looking across the valley of Big Creek.

Looking across the valley of Big Creek.

Magic lantern on Beauregard Ridge

Posted by Jenny in Hiking, Nature, Photography and tagged with , ,

I’m always looking for a good exercise hike not far from home in Sylva, NC. Lately I’ve latched onto the Noland Divide trail up to Beauregard Ridge. It’s 3.5 miles and a 2200′ climb to the Lonesome Pine side trail. If I dawdle and take pictures, it takes around three hours roundtrip—I’ve done it in two and a half.

Last spring I went up there and caught the new leaves emerging at around 4000′ elevation. If you go to this post and scroll past the azalea and laurel blossoms, you’ll see tiny, fuzzy leaves. Some of them may even be the same leaves shown here.

It was a cloudy day when I went up there recently, but sometimes I prefer fall colors under muted gray skies rather than brilliant blue that can seem overstated.

I spent most of my time looking at leaves up close. Click on any photo for zoom.

I’d enjoy the view of the surrounding ridges, richly upholstered in many colors, and then zero in on the universe of colors up close.

The clouds were lowering as I descended back toward the ordinary world . . . beautiful.

Cloud line on Ben Nevis

Posted by Jenny in Hiking, Memoir, Travel and tagged with , ,

As we approached the cloud line, the valley started to disappear

When Bob and I decided to go to Scotland, it went without saying that we would climb Ben Nevis, at 4409′ the highest point in the British Isles. Our original idea was to do the exposed ridge traverse from the subpeak of Carn Mor Dearg to the Nevis summit, but when the forecast called for fog and rain, we opted to go by the well-graded, switchbacking tourist route.

In one respect, Ben Nevis reminds me of Katahdin in Maine. Both of them are rocky glacial peaks that have a “front” and a “back.” At Katahdin, approaching from the south, you climb up onto a vast broad tableland and follow a gently rising trail to the summit, where the mountain abruptly drops away into a steep-sided cirque. At Ben Nevis, also approaching from the south, you climb up to a wide summit plateau from which fierce ridges and gullies descend.

Each of these peaks is so asymmetrical that photos taken from one side or another seem to show completely different mountains.

Bob and I spent the night at a B&B in Fort William. Our first two nights in Scotland, we’d stayed at a small hotel in Inverness, but this place was the home of a family that kept one or two rooms for guests and served breakfast at their own dining table. Here in the U.S., “B&B” means something quite different, more like an inn.

We were still adjusting to the long daylight hours of late June at this northerly latitude. The sun didn’t completely disappear until around 11:00 at night and came back too promptly around 4:00, like an annoying visitor overeager to get going in the morning. “Rise and shine!”

We started at Achintee on the east side of the River Nevis. We faced a significant vertical climb, as it begins practically at sea level. The trail is very solidly constructed, with stone steps. Before long we encountered some cross traffic.

Cross traffic

The sheep were a matching set, each with a white body and a black nose with pretty little white splotches on the side of its face.

The trail switchbacks its way up

Soon we were swallowed in clouds. We encountered many other people as we made the steady, even climb toward the summit. When we arrived, Bob and I celebrated with a taste of Scotch.

Nip of Scotch whiskey

Like many prominent summits, the top of Nevis has all kinds of marks of human activity: the remains of an observatory, various cairns, and a small shelter suitable only for emergency use. I read that some hikers wandering on the summit plateau discovered the carcass of an old piano. No one knows how it came to be there.

Bob stands victorious on one of the observatory posts

We headed back down to the valley and re-crossed the frontier between cloud and sunshine. It had been a good day.

Back below the clouds

Mountain of the corrie and the red deer

Posted by Jenny in Hiking, Memoir, Photography, Travel and tagged with , , , , ,

Bob climbs out of the corrie

This post first appeared in my other blog, Endless Streams and Forests, in March 2009.

Beinn Eighe was one of the two “Munros” that Bob and I climbed on a trip to Scotland in early summer 1998.  It was a beautiful mountain.

Beinn Eighe is located near Loch Torridon, on the northwest coast of Scotland across from the Isle of Skye.  It lies in that part of the map that always sparks my imagination.  Any place on the map that suggests vast empty northern spaces does that, for reasons I find hard to explain.  It must be that the direction north in and of itself transfixes my imagination, the same way it transfixes the compass needle.  I seem to be enthralled, whether we are talking about limitless forests of white spruce in Canada or the treeless horizon of the Scottish highlands.

Our B&B on Loch Torridon

At our latitude of 57 degrees in early July, light completely dominated over darkness.  The light didn’t give up ownership of the sky until after 11:00 at night, and it reclaimed it before 4:00 in the morning.  We stayed at a small B & B on a bare, stony hill overlooking the loch.  No need to get an early start for our 11-mile, 3000′ vertical outing, so we had a comfortable breakfast before driving up the road through Glen Torridon.  We passed the stark mass of Liathach with its razor’s-edge ridge of crumbling sandstone and then started our hike alongside a rushing stream.

Fog swaddled the mountaintops, but down in the rough moor where we walked, we were bathed in warm sunlight.  The valley seemed alive with running streams.  We circled around the western end of the wide Beinn Eighe massif and then curled back southward to climb into a high tucked-away ravine, called in Scotland a corrie.  The name of this one is Coire Mhic Fhearchair.  At the center of the corrie resided a beautiful loch of cold, clear water, deep green in color when you looked at it up close, shifting magically to luminous blue when you moved further away.  Bob tried fishing for a few minutes, but the fish were not cooperating.

Coire Mhic Fhearchair

We continued toward the southeast corner of the corrie, following a rough herd path between pools and waterfalls toward a steep scree slope, then climbed up the scree into a deep couloir.  The rocks to the side of the gravel chute made for good scrambling up to the top of a broad ridge.

The high mists were just starting to drift away when we saw a red deer standing on the ridge.  It seemed to me like something in a dream, an apparition.  We watched for a moment as the deer disappeared over the far side of the ridge.  We climbed over easy open tundra a half mile to the summit.  The point we reached is called Ruadh-stac-Mor (3100′), the highest of Beinn Eighe’s subpeaks.  The view was the kind that demonstrates the uselessness of those threadbare superlatives like “breathtaking,” “stunning,” “spectacular.”  Bob made a good stab at it in his hiking journal: “The horizon was defined by endless waves of high mountains over mists.”

No roads, no fences, just mountains

The craggiest of the Torridon peaks stood to our west, but oddly enough I found the rolling open spaces directly to the north to be even more fascinating.  It struck me that nowhere in that vastness did I see any roads, houses, telephone poles, or even any fences.  I felt the strange pang that comes in the face of the limitless.

Another hiker joined us on the summit, telling us he’d spotted two deer and a ptarmigan on the ridge.  We rested for a long time before we made our way back through the distinct stages of the journey—ridge, couloir, scree, corrie, loch, moor—that seemed like chapters in an engrossing book.

On the ridge as the mist was clearing

High altitude distress

Posted by Jenny in Hiking, Memoir, Photography, Travel and tagged with , , , ,

It laughed at us.

Steve was not a happy camper. He’d been experiencing typical South American intestinal distress, but the plumbing at the 15,000′+ Refugio  in Zongo Pass froze up every night.

For about ten days, we’d been preparing for our assault on Huayna Potosi (HP), a mountain not far from La Paz sometimes described as “the easiest 6000-meter peak in the world.” Depending on what you take as its exact elevation, it works out to just under or just over 20,000′, which, as metrically-impaired Americans, we found more meaningful.

After our trip in the Condoriri, I felt I was ready for anything. I’d achieved elevations higher than 17,000′ without any problem. We met our guides in La Paz for a hike from Chacaltaya to Zongo Pass, the starting point for climbs of HP, just to lock in that acclimatization. Many people climb HP with far less preparation.

Chacaltaya is the ruins of a ski resort close to La Paz that was dependent on the existence of a glacier for the necessary frozen surface. Unfortunately, the glacier has virtually disappeared, due to global warming. It is still possible to ski down about 600′ by carefully following the slim sliver of snow that remains.

We drove to the ski area on a road that seemed precipitous, but we were soon to learn on the “Death Road” what “precipitous” really means. I will describe that in my next post. Once at the ski buildings, we climbed 700 vertical feet to the 17,785′ summit of Chacaltaya, which turned out to be the highest elevation we achieved on the trip.

As the highest place around that’s possible to drive to, Chacaltaya is used as a place to study acclimatization.

After a hike of several hours over a moonscape of arid ridges and past an old mine, we arrived at the Refugio.

Steve is a stoical sort, but his terse responses to the usual conversational babble indicated that he was fading as a result of his inability to keep any food in his system. Bob and I had been spared the wrath of the Digestive Gods, but we’d both started to cough—annoying dry, hacking coughs, the kind that drive nearby people crazy.

Refugio in Zongo Pass

The Refugio had a common area with a fireplace. A bundle of wood stood next to it. We thought we’d have a jolly evening with a roaring fire. After several attempts, we realized the air was too thin for more than a symbolic  fire.

We all felt depleted, so we retired to our bunks. Bob coughed so much that I couldn’t sleep with his hacking next to my ear. Small brown rats scampered around our belongings, looking for M&Ms or cheese or anything that wasn’t encased in cast iron. Early the next morning, we arose for our training trip to the Charquini glacier. There, we’d practice the ice-climbing moves that would help us get to the summit of HP—maybe not all that easy, after all.

Our route to the glacier took us along the top of an aqueduct with a huge dropoff. The guides roped us up for this section. As I made my way along, I felt lightheaded and weak. Was it the altitude? I didn’t think so. I’d already hit higher altitudes with no problem.

By the time we reached the base of the glacier, I felt distinctly unwell, as if I was coming down with the flu. Steve had rallied, but I was fading. I felt so unsteady that I decided I must stay behind while the others practiced their moves.

Approach to the glacier

I sat beside a boulder and waited as the others practiced their climbing.

They reached the lower boundary of the glacier

Steve took a photo of Bob as he ascended the glacier’s steepest part.

Bob proves his mettle

Bob and I had done winter climbing in New Hampshire’s White Mountains where at times (such as the Lions Head Winter Route up Mt. Washington) we’d used crampons and ice axes, but we’d never done technical ice climbing. I felt crappy—psychologically as much as physically—as I realized I was missing out on the opportunity to “take it up to the next level.”

After a few hours, my companions came off the glacier. A vast swath of fog had streamed up from the backside of the mountain—Zongo Pass is a divide between the Pacific and the Amazon Basin, and every day, as things warm up, a vast exchange occurs between the cold dry Altiplano air and the air that comes up from the jungle.

They descended from the glacier in fog

We were supposed to climb the next day to “Campo Argentina” on the slope of HP and then awake around 2:00 a.m. the day after to make the push to the summit. Part of the reason for the early start is that the steep snow slopes become avalanche-prone as the temperatures rise.

But I was a nose-streaming, throat-hacking mess, Bob had dwindled to the same state, and Steve wasn’t exactly at his best. Our preparation for the high altitude had been actually too lengthy. After nearly two weeks in the cold dry Altiplano air, we’d come down with good old ordinary head colds.

Acclimatization is hard to figure out. I’ve gone from sea level to Colorado, climbed a Fourteener with no difficulty within a couple of days, then had problems two days later. Obviously, if you spend a big chunk of time at high altitude, you’re going to be better off. But how you manage that first week or so is a matter of debate. There’s a trade-off between adjusting to the thin air and getting weakened by it.

At any rate, we weren’t up to climbing our 20,000′ mountain. It was a huge disappointment after preparing for it over the past months and traveling all the way to Bolivia to do it.

But being in Bolivia was an adventure in itself. We still had the experience of the “Death Road” ahead of us.

Huayna Potosi

Mountains of the condor

Posted by Jenny in Hiking, Memoir, Photography, Travel and tagged with , , , , ,

The “head” of the condor is the snowy peak to the left of the shadowy one

In preparation for our attempt to climb a 20,000′ Bolivian peak, we had acclimatized for six days at elevations around 12,000 feet. The next step was a two-day trek in the Condoriri, a mountain range located not far from La Paz. The name comes from the resemblance of the central peaks to the head and shoulders of a condor—a likeness you have to squint quite a bit to see in the photo above.

We would camp at Lake Chiarkota, elev. 15,252′, and climb over a pass at around 16,000′ beside a peak called the Mirador. The trek was organized by La Paz-based guide Hugo Berrios. Tents and gear were carried by donkeys that would ferry these items back out the second morning, while Hugo continued on with us.

We started at Lago Tuni, a lake at 13,775′. The area seemed bleak and monochromatic, but snowy peaks beckoned on the horizon. Steve, Bob, and I kept a close eye on our altimeters, looking out for the point at which we would climb higher than our previous lifetime high point, the summit of Mt. Whitney (14,505′). We passed this momentous point at an inconspicuous stretch along the valley. The llamas and alpacas watched us curiously.

Llamas and alpacas were the only features of interest in the foreground.

Two alpacas stand proudly in front of the mountains

Our pack burros at the campsite

We arrived at Lake Chiarkota in the late afternoon. Already a chill had touched the air, and we were glad to have plenty of warm layers for this July trek. The lake was a beautiful glacier-tinted shade of blue.

Lake Chiarkota

Jenny and Bob at campsite

The next morning we climbed a steep grassy slope above the lake.

Climbing above the lake

I was pleased to find that the altitude wasn’t bothering me. We crossed some steep scree fields.

That is Hugo’s dog you see next to me. In the background, Bob is seated on the scree slope.

Hugo was a great guy to have with us, very friendly and helpful. He’s done a lot of technical climbing in the Condoriri.

Hugo Berrios, our guide

The scenery was almost beyond description.

Ho, hum!

As we returned toward Lago Tuni, we encountered some small farms. Life in this cold, severe world of the Altiplano can’t be easy.

I liked the third face popping up behind the wall!

Bob poses beside two piglets.

Life here looks hard.

Coming soon: Posts about the 20,000-footer we failed to climb and about the famous “Death Road” to Coroico.

Unless something goes terribly wrong

Posted by Jenny in Hiking, Humor, Memoir, Travel and tagged with , , ,

View of Lake Batur from the questionable restaurant

We listened to the pitter-patter of little rat feet on the corrugated tin roof of our restaurant as we dined on pizza with fried eggs on top. The Balinese put fried eggs on top of all of their food, it seemed. Well, Jim had warned us that we might experience a tradeoff at our hotel that evening between the fantastic view and other more variable conditions.

I had joined up with the “adventure tour” group after attending a business conference in Denpasar. The group was led by Jim, a swarthy Dartmouth graduate who’d lived in Bali for a long time and spoke the language fluently. I missed the first day of the tour in Ubud, but met up with the others that evening in a hotel that stood on stilts in a rice paddy. We had a retired doctor and his wife from Seattle plus two teachers who each lived on a tight budget but saved to satisfy their yearning for travel—and managed to achieve big trips.

The doctor was a photography buff who told us he planned to enter the pictures from this trip in a big photography contest. It was interesting to me that he never took photos of people but only of landscapes. His wife, a point-and-shoot photographer, had a way of engaging the Balinese with a smile and a friendly approach, and she got some wonderful photos. She was also a champion bargainer, and I learned from observing her bartering technique.

The doctor’s complicated wristwatch chimed on the hour every hour, which irritated him, but he couldn’t figure out how to turn it off.

The two teachers came from different towns on the West Coast—I forget exactly where. One was a woman about my age, and the other was a short, slender guy that I’ll refer to as Cal. He was quiet, but very smart.

We’d been trekking through lush, verdant country and had a big adventure ahead of us—we were going to climb Gunung Batur, a live but not very active volcano that had a beautiful lake inside its crater. The hotel sat perched on the very rim of the crater. We’d stashed our luggage in our tiny rooms and convened for dinner in the rat-infested restaurant.

Someone said, “What side of the lake will the sun rise?” Cal pointed and murmured, “Over there in the east, unless something goes terribly wrong.”

I cracked up.

The next day we made the climb up the 5633-foot Batur. As I recall, it was a climb of roughly 2000 vertical feet, and it took us a couple of hours. The guides attached to our group, both named Wayan, were augmented by local guides who led us up the steep gritty trail wearing flipflops and smoking cigarettes. They were fast. I was impressed. We reached the top and enjoyed the spectacle of the sprawling, pearly-colored lake.

I am second from left, with one of the Wayans beside me. Doctor and his wife in back, the other Wayan, and Cal.

Later in the tour I would split off from the group to engage in a climb of Gunung Agung with the plaid-shirt-wearing Wayan accompanying me. Agung is the tallest mountain in Bali, measuring 10,308′ following a huge eruption in 1964.

Bali is a beautiful place. I plan to return to Indonesia, land of green rice paddies and giant volcanoes, where the sun will rise in the east unless something goes terribly wrong.

We wore sarongs when we visited temples. Jim is in the back.

Plott Blossoms

Posted by Jenny in Hiking, Nature, Photography and tagged with , , , , , ,

The tall flox had the most lovely old-fashioned sweet fragrance, like a young girl’s eau de cologne

This is a handful of photos about “blossoms of the Plott Balsams,” a phrase that begs to be simplified the same way we simplify equations in arithmetic. So we arrive at “Plott Blossoms.”

The Plott Balsams are the range southeast of the Smokies that separates the drainage of the Oconoluftee from the drainage of the Tuckasegee. They are right in my backyard, though it is not accurate to say that I live “in the shadow of the Plott Balsams,” as they are to the north of me.

I am so fortunate to have these mountains very close. Several times every week I do a short hike in the Fisher Creek valley or along the crest of the Plotts, which include five peaks over 6000′ in elevation.

These photos were taken two weeks ago, many of them around 5000′, and the laurel and azalea are just about gone now. But you can look for them next year.

Flame azalea in one of its more yellowish shades—compare with color below

The classic orange shade

Bower of catawba rhododendron

Umbrella leaf

Umbrella leaf and laurel

This may be the most bountiful laurel I’ve ever seen.

I was surprised to see a columbine so late.

Not a blossom, but still interesting.

Oenothera (evening primrose)

And after I left, the mysterious woods with its boulders and vines returned to its solitude.

A tangle not easy to penetrate.

East Fork of Fisher Creek

Posted by Jenny in Hiking, Nature, Photography and tagged with , ,

Dwarf larkspur

The town of Sylva in Jackson County, western North Carolina, lies south of the Plott Balsams. The Plott range would win far more attention were it not in the shadow of the Great Smoky Mountains. Five of its peaks rise higher than 6000′, and each of its stream valleys forms a dramatic steep-sided bowl.

I moved from Asheville to Sylva a couple of weeks ago, a move that many will find puzzling. Leave behind those great restaurants like Laughing Seed and Tupelo Honey, the Twelve Bones BBQ place where the Obamas stopped to eat, the Fine Arts Cinema and the Orange Peel, all the offbeat people with interesting tattoos—leave behind the most whimsical city in North Carolina? But I was spending all my time driving to the Smokies. Plus—any New Yorkers reading this will laugh—I found Asheville too urban and too expensive. I was paying a little more for everything there than I would anywhere else in western NC. Call it the “Asheville tax.”

Here in Sylva, it takes me about 15 minutes of driving to get to Fisher Creek in the Plott Balsams. Once there, I have a choice: West Fork or East Fork. The way up the West Fork is an old rubbly road that bears the scars from when that stream was part of the Sylva town water supply. The trail up the East Fork is an attractive footpath that leads up steeply past waterfalls and cascades.

On a warm day when thunderstorms were threatening, I went up the East Fork for an exercise hike. There’s a section where you climb 500′ in about a quarter mile. But the wildflowers keep you entertained as you work up a sweat.

The white trilliums turn pink as the blooms start to pass their prime

Ferns were uncurling everywhere, the shape reminiscent of the scrollwork at the end of a violin.

Christmas ferns unscrolling themselves

I believe this is Golden Alexander, a member of the carrot family. Correct me if I’m wrong!

Wild oats. Some call it bellwort.

Bloodroot and trillium

Squaw root

Bluets

After I climbed up the steep part, I noticed that the sky was turning an unhealthy color. I could hear thunder in the distance. I beat a hasty retreat before a downpour of cold silver rain moved in to drench the mountainside.

Light in the foreground, dark in the background

Bleak How, the Pike of Carrs, the Cat Bells, and Scafell Pike

Posted by Jenny in Hiking, Memoir, Travel and tagged with , , , , , , ,

This bit of memoir first appeared in my Endless Streams and Forests blog in June 2009.

It started with my old boss, Gerard McCloskey, loaning me his Wainwright books about walking in the Lake District while I was over in England for work in October 1989.   From there it was a spur-of-the-moment decision to do some exploring in the wilds of the Cumbrian Mountains as a side trip.  I had no real hiking gear, but I borrowed a backpack—more what you would call a knapsack— from Gerard and, since my raingear was inadequate, I also borrowed an umbrella from his wife Sheila.  For footgear I wore shoes that are hard to describe: not hiking boots, not running shoes, but comfortable shoes that were a bit dressy, like something you would wear with slacks to a social gathering.

I got from London to Windermere by train and from there to Grasmere by bus, as I recall.  (I am going by memory on all of this.)   It was a windy, overcast afternoon as I dutifully looked in on Dove Cottage, the home of William and Dorothy Wordsworth.  I am quite willing to journey iambically with Wordsworth, but I wasn’t really in the area to look at points of historic interest.  I was there to see mountains.  I found a small hotel and had a dinner that involved Cumberland sausage and a brew called Old Peculiar.

In the morning, after my breakfast of eggs and sausage, fried tomatoes, and toast, I called over to an even smaller hotel in the village of Rosthwaite and made a reservation for the next two evenings.  I then started walking toward Rosthwaite.

It rained most of the day.  To reach Rosthwaite, I had to climb over the wide divide that separates the watershed of the River Derwent from the chain of lakes that includes Thirlmere, Rydal Water, and Windermere.  It was a rough, stony track that took me past guardian sheep.

This one wore a black and white sweater

This one wore a black and white sweater

My route took me up the valley of Far Easedale Gill, past the Deer Bields and the Pike of Carrs, and across the height of land at Greenup Edge.  At that point my umbrella nearly blew inside out from the wind.  Passing through an unmarked junction of rough paths, I continued northwest along the headwaters of Greenup Gill, between Long Band and Bleak How, and down into Stonethwaite Fell.

Near Bleak How

Near Bleak How

I passed some small farms.  All of the streams were running high (or as they would say in that region, the becks were in spate), and in the picture below you can make out a cascade glimmering in the distance.  It was starting to get a bit dim.

Approaching Stonethwaite Fell

Approaching Stonethwaite Fell

Right around 4:00 I found my Rosthwaite hotel, folded my umbrella, and walked in.  The proprietor said, “Good to see you, Miss Bennett.  We will be serving tea in ten minutes.”  Hot tea and cookies, which I had in the dining room with three or four other guests, have never tasted so good.

The next day I walked down the Borrowdale valley and climbed Scafell Pike, the high elevation point of England (3209′).  From where I started, it was a climb of about 2900 vertical feet.  The Pike is a rugged mountain studded with sharp stones and riven by steep gullies.  I took a well-traveled route, going up along Grain’s Gill.

Grain's Gill

Grain's Gill

Then I passed Sprinkling Tarn.

Sprinkling Tarn

Sprinkling Tarn

The clouds were just brushing the mountain.  I believe the next picture was taken looking past All Crags over Angle Tarn, but I wouldn’t swear to it.

Lake District 10

The path was easy to follow, but at no point were there any signs—not at trailheads, junctions, or destinations.  I hope that is still the case, and I applaud the English for that tradition.  It was not hard to find my way to to the summit, but when it was time to descend, many somewhat confusing paths led toward widely separated valleys.  Picking my way carefully over the scree, I sorted things out and followed the path that led past the Round How and back toward the Borrowdale valley, a route that roughly paralleled my ascent.  I saw some interesting formations of grass and hill on the way down.

Lake District 15

I remember that at this point, my ankles were getting a little tired in my thin, low-topped shoes as I stepped from rock to rock, but I am strangely proud of the fact that I managed to pull off this … feat.  Eventually I wended my way back to the Rosthwaite hotel in time for dinner.

The next day I headed north toward Derwent Water, a large, clear lake.  I followed the River Derwent a short distance, then scrambled up to the top of the ridge that lies to the west of the river.  The ridge, or at least part of it, is labelled as Narrow Moor on my map.  I passed High Scawdel, Lobstone Band, and Nitting Haws.  Clouds were scuttling across the sky, creating a patchwork of light and shadow (see top picture).  The ridge terminates in some hills called the Cat Bells, which I descended down to the lake.

Derwent Water

Derwent Water

I knew that a boat circled the lake in a clockwise direction, touching at various points at scheduled times.  I recall that I had a timetable for the boat, and at any rate, I walked to Hawes End and waited for the boat.  I had a bit of trouble at first believing that the boat really existed, but eventually I saw it approach, and I boarded it for the journey to Keswick.

Heading toward Keswick

Heading toward Keswick

I strolled around Keswick (pop. 4800) in the late afternoon.  The next morning I visited the Pencil Museum, another whole story that concerns pencils going into outer space, graphite mines, and my mother’s attitude about pencils.