It was early January in 1996 and mild temperatures gripped the country, a far cry from the harsh Christmas freeze up. Adam and I were slightly concerned whether there would be any snow and ice in the Lake District for us to climb in our February half term. Nonetheless we met up one dark night after school to study our ancient winter climbing guide and make plans for what we might want to climb.

A few weeks later and my uncle and his girlfriend arrived from France to take us up the M6 and so to Wasdale. The evening we arrived the fells were sheathed in hard snow and a cold crisp light filled the valleys. Conditions were perfect. Unfortunately a warm front was forecast for the next day (a phenomenon I have become depressingly familiar with over the last decade!). The next day the warm weather did indeed arrive and it stayed all day and all the next day too. Finally, on our last day the weather cooled down and we looked for a suitable winter climb. Fortunately the volume of snow and ice on the fells was more than enough to withstand the short thaw. Scafell had looked to be holding lots of snow and one combination of climbs stood out to us as being interesting but not too hard. The not too hard part was important as we only had one axe each and neither Adam or I had led a proper winter climb before.

The plan was for us to climb in pairs, Adam and myself, and my uncle with his girlfriend. I went to bed sore legged from the previous days antics on Great End yet hardly able to sleep with the anticipation of my first winter lead on the morrow. Finally the alarm clock rang out in the cold night. "This is it," I thought, "an amazing winter climb, at last". After a hurried breakfast and short car journey we pulled into the parking and set off up Brown Tongue bound for the icefalls and gullies of Scafell Shamrock. I secretly hoped to climb the Cascade or Direct Route, but I had no idea what climbing water ice with one axe and bendy boots would feel like so I said nothing to my companions.

Presently we arrived below the crags, strapped on our crampons and Adam arranged a belay below the shared start of Cascade and Easy Gully. Adam instructed me to climb quickly as he only had a buffalo top and a pair of army trousers on. I took a firm grip of my Cassin axe and stepped up towards a steep ice cascade. Thunk, I smashed the tool in and it held well. 'So far, so good' I thought, I balanced up and tried to kick my crampons into the water ice. They bit but it felt desperately insecure, as if they could slide out without warning at any moment. Tightening my grip on my axe I unclipped an ancient, blunt ice screw and tried to place it. After a few turns it hit rock. I clipped my one short sling to it and stepped up. The next move would require removing the axe and balancing until I had replaced it. Frightened I retreated to the start of the ice. "Hurry up," shivered Adam, already he was cold and he had only been on belay for 10 minutes. We decided steep water ice was not really a good first route and I quickly headed into the steep snowy ramp that started Easy Gully. After 45m the rope came tight and I belayed myself to a block with one of my slings.

We were hoping that we would find spikes or threads to belay from as we only had 4 nuts and didn't really trust them after a belay ripping incident the previous November whilst we were scrambling elsewhere in the Lakes.

Adam raced up the pitch, grabbed the remaining two slings and headed up into the steepening gully. Gone was the friendly soft snow ice of the previous two days, the colder temperatures had turned the mush into iron hard neve. My toes ached as I followed Adam's speedy lead. Every time I kicked into the slope I winced with pain, my thin leather boots provided much less protection than Adam's plastics and I envied his foot comfort.

Over the next few hours we made steady progress up the gully but the weather was worsening all the time. The calm blue skies of the morning had been replaced with a vicious North Westerly and blowing snow. By the bottom of the last pitch we were struggling to stay warm even when moving and the belays were a nightmare with our basic equipment. Before the trip Adam had boasted that he only needed to wear the Buffalo top next to his skin and he would certainly stay warm even at -25. Now he wasn't so sure. The feeling of uncertainty and commitment was growing in both of us, now on the belays we exchanged nervous glances and admonished one another to not fall off.

Finally we reached a point that seemed only a rope length from the top. I took one look at Adam's vertical axe belay and decided to get onto the next pitch quickly before I could think about it too much. It looked very wobbly, which was about how I felt as well. I quickly front pointed up the last funnel of neve, calves burning and my heart racing, all the time urging myself to not slip, nor misplace a crampon. Suddenly the slope lay back into a large ledge complete with belay spike. Behind us was the narrow gully of Lord's Rake which promised an escape to the foot of the crag. Relief washed over me as I brought Adam up, spindrift whipping my face and the storm increased in its fury. Now I no longer felt terrified, we were up and the descent was at hand, I knew we would make it back. On the ledge we shared a coffee and waited for my uncle to join us. It was 3pm and already the light was fading as we trudged down the snow of Lord's Rake. By the time we reached the scree of Brown Tongue it was dark but a good path led steadily down to the car, warmth and sleep.

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