Falling Through the World
If fighter jets can practice in the The Lake Disctrict, then surely two wild women can scream down the snowy fell.
The mountain rises ahead, its icing sugar slopes beckoning after a night that plunged to minus 8 degrees. My friend J. and I stayed on a snowy campsite near Keswick in the Lake District, while most of the country hunkered down on this icy weekend in late January. The ground crunches beneath our boots as we set off on the trail. The soil has hardened and turned grey, while above us, the only thing to exist is powdery snow and a vast blue sky. We are giddy, like children about to ride a sled.
J. strides ahead, effortlessly chic in her beautifully cut teddy fleece (‘Charity shop, of course!’) and striking purple hiking boots. Her fiery henna hair flares in the bright sunlight. An avid runner, J. is tall and slender with trendy glasses and an impressive collection of beanies and hats. Today, it’s a terracotta beret. Its nub is my lure, coaxing me up the mountain in my premenstrual state.
I lag behind, bundled in a shapeless black parka and worn-out hiking trousers. It’s Cycle Day 23, and the chilly night in my cramped campervan, shared with the dog, has left me bleary-eyed and dragging. I found my Tempur pillow had stiffened in the freezing temperatures, and the top layer of my duvet had turned crisp with cold. Every couple of hours I had woken up to check on the dog who had made a nest out of my coat and fleece blanket.
The sharp winter air and wonderful company fill me with a sudden excitement, as does the prospect of the snacks and flask of tea in J.’s backpack. The cold bites at my cheeks, fixing my face into a permanent smile.
We pass people wearing crampons and polarised sunglasses.
‘We are doing the full horseshoe’, says the suntanned lady with her pink hiking outfit. She has done it before in the snow.
I’m concerned we may have bit off more than we could chew. The dog lurches forward, half-leaping, half-wading through the deep snow, her paws sinking with each jump. Yet she marches on, her tail wagging from below the hem of her olive-green waterproof coat. We are being overtaken by solo men with full-size backpacks, wearing zipped running jackets. We stop for chats. Locals mostly.
Each hill we crest reveals another rising behind it, until at last, we see the summit: Grisedale Pike. The snow gets thicker as we ascent. First it takes our soles, then swallows our ankles, cold drips seeping through woollen socks, sending icy shivers up our legs. I’m grateful for the hiking sticks she brought along. The stick works like a welcome third leg for balance. I plant it deeply to gauge the depth of the verge, but I’m not hitting anything solid.
When you walk on fresh snow, you have no idea what you’re really walking on. Beneath me could be a path, bracken, a stream, or a hole—a deep crevice between rocks. We follow the trail made by the feet of hikers who came before us, churning up some of the snow. Next to the stirred patches, bits of vegetation poke through the blinding white layer. I place my feet in boot marks, which look more like half metre deep holes. Pines lie half-buried, their lower halves completely covered.
The exertion of the climb takes our breath away. A comfortable silence settles over us as we become entranced by the crunching sound and the fresh air. I realise there was no need for the big coat with the beaming sunshine reflecting off the snow. Sweat drips between my breasts. Today, a few days before my period, I run extra hot. The three layers cling and chafe, their textures setting my nerves on edge. My damp skin overreacts to the clothing tags at my neck.
We take a moment to look back. The village of Braithwaite appears to be sitting in a mixing bowl surrounded by plump sponge cakes covered in spikes of whipped cream. The grass in the valley desaturates as the whiteness strangles the green. The village sits surrounded and protected by the giants around it. The owner of the local shop said that it hardly snows in the village itself as it lays embraced by the mountains. Later, we notice that Braithwaite feels warmer than its neighbouring Keswick. The mountains shield from the breeze where Keswick takes the cold air blown in from the lake.
From the tops, the Earth’s aura seems to reveal itself, glowing in an almost lime-green hue directly above the darkness of distant hills. The sky then shifts into a spectrum of colours, radiating from an eerie yellow to a light and a deep blue, streaked with cotton candy wisps of cloud.
Later, I learn this greenish tone is dayglow, which occurs when sunlight strikes the daytime atmosphere, energising atmospheric molecules as they absorb the light. In their excited state, these molecules release the energy as light, emitting it at the same or a slightly lower frequency or colour than what they originally absorbed.
Snowy landscapes always seem quieter to me, the soft drifts absorb our chatter. We feel as if we are on top of the world, looking down at a muted green basin, encircled by endless white. The illusion of silent perfection is shattered by fighter jets slicing through the valley below. From our vantage point, we nearly see into the cockpits, warping our sense of scale. A wave of anger rises in me. Their presence feels aggressive, an intrusion on my inner peace, a reminder of war, somewhere, sometime. Maybe soon.
J. recently split from her partner of five years and admits she still holds on to some sadness and resentment about the breakup. A lot has happened since their fateful Christmas, and the recent death of her ex’s close relative has left her with tangled emotions. Another fighter jet thunders through the valley, overpowering our conversation. We are restless, agitated. Like the sonic boom that swallows our voices on the mountain, J. felt throttled in her relationship, unable to make herself heard.
As is custom in my weird, emotionally expressive family, I ask her if she wants to scream—to let it all out. This feels like the perfect place. If fighter jets can practice here, surely two wild women can roar. We pause near the summit, looking out over the village below, then let our voices tear through the mountain air. Her scream is a little stifled, still pretty, while mine sounds like I’m about to be killed. I'm a seasoned yeller. J. is still new to confronting emotions deemed negative. Anger has no place in a world she fills with art, stunning outfits, and flowers, crafting beauty in her work as a wedding florist.
The sound breaks the air open, like a shock wave. My wail startled her. I joke that mountain rescue will be alerted to two women in distress. We celebrate with muesli bars and tea from another of her charity shop finds—a flask adorned with Moomin, the Finnish troll-like cartoon creature.
Determined to go further, we press on; the walk wouldn’t feel complete without reaching the top. But the snow holds us back. The dog leaps with giddy enthusiasm, yet she struggles, her legs vanishing, belly deep in snow. I worry she might disappear altogether, slipping through the world.
Lumps of snow have matted into J.’s long, Fair Isle-patterned socks. The path into the woods to the right of the summit walk—our intended route—proves treacherous. We keep going regardless and follow the faintest boot marks toward the plantation. These aren’t just sole prints but deep, human foot-shaped holes in the snow, their bottoms lost to shadow. The pines are nearly half-buried, their fresh green tips jutting out like floating dark triangles against the now pale sky.
Both ambitious by nature, we are persistent, drawn to circular routes and the promise of changing views. Undeterred by a challenge, we relish the thought of strenuous, looping paths. J. jokes that they look better on Strava, and we laugh about appeasing the fitness app gods. We plod on.
Then I step into a hole and keep sinking until my legs vanish and my boots begin to slowly fill with fresh snow. Still, I don’t find solid ground beneath my feet. I'm surprised by how the cold, scratchy texture feels soothing against my bare legs, my trouser legs pulled up by the sheer mass pressing against me. I try to grasp my surroundings, to pull myself up, but only sink deeper.
It’s like falling through the map in a video game. An itchy, dizzying sensation crawls through my brain, reminiscent of my time as a game artist, when unfinished sections of the map would send me plummeting into the void while I polished my artwork. The world above me slips away, untouchable yet visible, as I plunge further, drifting from everything I know into nothingness. Only to spawn again.
Up Grisedale Pike I keep glitching.
‘Some help, please.’
But she just stands there, laughing. I’m stuck, both legs trapped, and every attempt to move only makes me lose my footing further. I have no choice but to claw my way out with bare hands, sinking deeper with each desperate push. My gloves, of course, are still buried in my backpack since snack time. An icy wind cuts through, biting at the wet patches on my clothes.
Meanwhile, wildfires rage through Los Angeles. An image is engraved in my mind: a ghastly Cybertruck against a backdrop of smoke and the orange glow of embers. A lone palm tree stands beside the metal monstrosity, engulfed in flames. While last night, my hometown in the Pennines plunged to minus fifteen. Just two weeks earlier, it was plus fifteen.
We admit defeat and retrace our steps, moving faster now, slipping and sliding most of the descent. I flail briefly before momentum takes over, sending me backward, arms flung wide, creating an unintended snow angel.
‘Whoa there, you okay?’
‘All good,’ I giggle.
An attractive, chatty man in his forties joins us, walking a spaniel that keeps pausing to lick the snowballs collected in its paw fur. He has the easy confidence of someone unburdened by routine or stress, his face weathered but open with piercing blue eyes, the kind of person who thrives outdoors. I pick up my pace.
The dogs chase each other, no longer able to walk properly. They leap and pounce, darting like deer or foxes striking at prey—their movements frantic, playful and almost nervous. I push away the nagging worry about her getting wet and cold.
He tells us how he left behind a career and mortgage to travel the world, looking after pets through a pet-sitting website, spending his days walking and trail running. Life could be so easy. J. produces a Harris Tweed hip flask containing single malt whisky, which we pass between us as we descend, the walking turning into something closer to controlled falling. The pub calls.
We push on toward the town centre of Keswick, boots heavy with snow, legs aching, flushed with cold and whisky. A place with open fires welcomes us in, the air thick with the scent of wood smoke and beer. The dog curls up on a leather bench atop a heap of coats, resting her head on a stranger’s lap, keeping one eye on me before drifting into sleep. We sip on halves of local ale, working our way through the taps, and tuck into their famous goulash, the warmth settling deep into our bones.