Callum’s father had introduced his sons to Wainwright’s definitive books on fell-walking early in their lives, and Callum appreciated Wainwright’s encouragement for the solitary walker. On this walk it was soon clear he was in the minority, for he began to overtake small groups marching confidently along the flat paths towards the first slopes, and saw one much larger walking party in the distance. You had to go off the beaten track nowadays to find a truly solitary spot. The sheer scope of the Lake District, the steadfast backdrop of soaring peaks, hid myriad small changes among its slopes and valleys. The influx of tourists, the erosion, the problems with phosphates and algae, the mining waste, they were all playing their part in changing the landscape. The mere mention of fracking – despite political promises of ‘exceptional circumstances only’ – was terrifying. Change was inevitable, and Callum only hoped it wouldn’t be in his lifetime. These pristine panoramas might suggest that some things could defy time, but even the mighty fells couldn’t avoid it forever.
Amid these sobering thoughts, Callum was vaguely aware of other voices fading in and out, but for the most part only the spirit of his father kept him company. Although he and Liam had often grumbled and bickered their way to Lakeland summits as teenagers, ultimately their father had bequeathed his love of the fells to them both. It was one of those precious gifts that was only recognised in hindsight.
Was he passing on his passions to his own children, Callum wondered. He hoped Georgia would keep up with her running, but she seemed determined to go to a big, dirty city university. And Zac was besotted by flashing screens in darkened rooms, which Callum found hard to bear. In truth, nowadays he felt like a spare part within the family. His attempts at being useful only irritated his wife, and his voice was as interesting to his kids as static noise. It was far better to be at the rescue station, where he was so obviously needed.
He wasn’t just struggling at home. It was getting increasingly difficult to spend time dealing with cranky clients in an office that was either freezing or overheated thanks to the temperature zealots among the staff. He would breathe in recycled air and dream of the outdoors.
He thought Anya would back him if he wanted to take a risk – her work would cover the mortgage, and there was enough money left in her inheritance to pay for the kids’ schooling. Still, he struggled with the idea of his wife supporting the family while he dithered on a career change. He could already hear Liam’s jokes about him being a ‘kept man’. Besides, the most satisfying thing he did was his work with the rescue unit, and those positions were a hundred per cent volunteer.
No answers came to him, and yet the air seemed to get easier to breathe as he steadily climbed higher. It took two hours to reach the beginning of the ridge walk, and from that point his experience meant he began to catch up and pass more and more groups, often leaving them with a few words of advice about the route, particularly negotiating the perilous rock formations of the step and the slab. The rock-strewn ridges were a challenge for the inexperienced, but Callum made it past all five of the crinkle crags in a couple of hours – resting by the three tarns and watching the clouds’ reflections rolling across their languid waters, before he turned his attention to the summit of Bowfell.
He was making his way along the section known as Climber’s Traverse when he heard a shout. He had been treading confidently, despite the fact this stretch of track pinioned walkers to the hillside with a steep slope that dropped off immediately from the narrow footpath’s outer edge into a deep and rocky ravine.
He stopped and listened. There was another short cry for help, a high note of anguish that urged Callum into a jog.
He expected to find the caller beyond a dip in the path, and was surprised when no one was there. ‘Hello?’ he called to the empty panorama, his voice a lingering echo across the void.
‘Over here, quickly, please . . .’ came a man’s voice, surprisingly close. Callum got down on his hands and knees and crawled to the edge, aware that if someone had already fallen, then the ground might be loose. Peering down, he found himself staring at a stricken face a few metres below him. The man was perched precariously on a boulder that formed a small ledge, and had found handholds among a few patches of heather.
‘My son, my son.’ The man was desperately trying to catch his breath. ‘He slipped and disappeared, and I can’t find a way down to him. I’ve been calling but there’s no response. Oh God, please help me.’
Callum quickly suppressed his fear – there wasn’t time. The man was visibly distraught, his own situation now as precarious as his son’s. Callum got to his knees and pulled his phone from his pocket, praying there would be coverage here. When he saw one bar on the screen he breathed a sigh of relief. He dialled Les Pickering, cutting off Les’s greeting.
‘Les, I’m on Climber’s Traverse near the scarp of Bowfell, in view of the buttress. I have a distressed father here whose son has fallen from the path. The boy isn’t visible. The dad has tried to climb down and now he’s stuck on a ledge. We need immediate assistance.’
‘I’m on it, Cal – I’ll get your position from your phone.’ There was no need to say more, they both knew the drill.
‘What’s your name?’ Callum asked quickly, searching around for anything that might help the man get off the ledge.
‘Mike – Mike McCallister.’ The man’s teeth were chattering. ‘Please, find my son.’
‘Help is on the way, Mike. Now I need to make sure you’re safe.’
‘No, please, I can wait – find Hugh—’