As Callum parks in the hospital grounds, he decides to leave his coat in the car and instead grabs his bright blue and red fleece jacket. It’s an instant favourite of his by virtue of the fact that Zac and Georgia bought it for him last Christmas. When Georgia had pointed out they’d chosen Superman colours, he could still hear the strange sound Anya had made – something between a laugh and a snort.
What might have been more useful, however, was a crystal ball to warn him just how many things would be coming his way this year. It was the McCallister incident that had started everything. Callum had argued with Anya that morning six months ago, and she had accused him once again of neglecting the family. They had each got ready for work in silence, but as he had driven along the twisting country roads he kept hearing the pleading echo of her voice. He had felt his hands grow clammy at the thought of driving all the way to the office at Barrow, his breathing quickening as he pictured himself at his desk. His gaze had been drawn to the hills in the distance, and he had pulled up at the side of the road, called work and feigned sickness. After that, for a few minutes he hadn’t even had the energy to turn the key in the ignition.
Eventually, he had re-started the car and changed direction, determined to traverse a fell that day, hoping that somewhere amid a panoramic view he might find a clearer perspective on things. He needed a challenge, a sense of accomplishment, and there was only one place for it: Bowfell.
He was grateful he kept boots and jacket in the car for rescues, so he didn’t have to go home. After a quick supermarket stop it took about twenty minutes to reach the car park at Dungeon Ghyll, which was more than half full despite the early hour. It was a good sign. Bowfell wasn’t for the inexperienced or inattentive rambler; it was one of the longest fell walks in the Lakes, so important to set off early. Callum had lost count of the number of rescue team call-outs from people who hadn’t managed to navigate off the crags before nightfall. Challenging enough by day, the rocky outcrops and steep scree slopes were highly dangerous in poor visibility.
He looked up at Crinkle Crags in the distance, the mini rollercoaster of peaks that marked the way to the Bowfell summit. It was one of those early spring days, the sky a promising backdrop of cornflower blue, but the sun still too insipid to warm the air. From this distance, the view was a picture postcard, but in a few hours he would be up there, and those sleek-looking crags would have transformed into a complex scramble of rocky inclines and gullies, while the place he stood now, with the hotel and fields close by, would all be recast in miniature.
As Callum set off, his breath formed mist clouds that floated and fell along with the rhythm of his feet on the gravel track. With each exhale he felt his head clearing, his body relaxing, the cares of the day drifting away. The fells had always had this effect on him. He had lived his whole life close to these perennial peaks and valleys, and long felt that strange, perpetual pull they demanded of man, to conquer the breadth and width of them with nothing more than singular strength, stamina and resourcefulness. Their presence could ease his soul beyond the limits of his skin, gathering him into the landscape. A few hours into a climb and Callum always reached a place beyond the realm of time, where there was just the pumping rush of oxygen, the next handhold, the next footfall.
He couldn’t wait to get going. He strode easily along the first long section of the track, surefooted and determined. Across the gentle green ascent, the path meandered ever upwards, disappearing towards the summit. In the distance, beyond the crags, he could just see the broad shoulders of Bowfell. The view hadn’t changed in his lifetime, making it easy to remember coming here as a child, still young enough to ride on his father’s shoulders.