What do you get when you mix vertigo-inducing heights, a hands-and-feet scramble, and an impromptu dunk in an icy tarn? A classic Lake District day out, of course. In this personal account, Tamara takes on Jack’s Rake – one of the region’s most infamous Grade 1 scrambles, known for catching out overconfident walkers who mistake it for a simple hike…
“They say it’s a window into the climber’s world,” my sister tells me. “You’d love it.”
She begins to describe a challenging rock scramble with vertigo-inducing heights – short, steep and utterly “Lake District epic”. Oh – and despite it being a precipitous climb up a 700m (2,297 feet) fell, there are no ropes in sight.
My attention was immediately caught.
The next day, we pulled into the National Trust Stickle Ghyll car park ready to take on Jack’s Rake, slicing up the face of Pavey Ark in the Langdale Valley.
I trusted my sister’s judgement – of both my physical and mental abilities, but this Grade 1 scramble, requiring both hands and feet to ascend, was clearly no walk in the park. Its low grade designation lures unwary hikers into believing Jack’s Rake is an easy taster of scrambling.
Was I one of them, I wondered? A naive hiker biting off a little more than I could chew?
I did some quick research as we drove, aiming to settle my hot, rising concern.
The word ‘rake’ means a path across a major precipice, often a line of weakness across a large, sheer rock face, used by climbers accessing routes, but also sometimes by walkers, like us.
The heights on this particular rake, I read, are rather dizzying and the slippery, crumbling rock conditions borderline questionable. Whilst it’s ‘only Grade 1’, a wrong move on this route could quite easily mean a deadly fall.
Before I knew it, I’d spiralled down a wormhole reading accident and incident reports at Jack’s Rake of which, rather unsettlingly, there have been quite a few.
The key recommendations were clear: some climbing experience and a strong head for heights are required. I had both, I assured myself. I climb often, and I used to work at the top of a London skyscraper for goodness’ sake! But the outdoors is no glass-walled office or fluorescent-lit climbing gym. This was real exposure – unfiltered and unpredictable.
The doubt crept in like cold water seeping into my boots – slow, unwelcome, and hard to ignore.
The Approach from New Dungeon Ghyll
As we pulled up into the car park, my stomach fluttered slightly. Nerves, or excitement? I couldn’t quite tell yet. Fortunately, I had some time to steady myself and calm my mind.
To reach the start of the Jack’s Rake route on Pavey Ark, we had to walk there first. A 2.4km (1.5 mile), 40 minute warm-up, meandering alongside and over the scenic ghyll (steep mountain stream) with the odd small, gushing waterfall.
Approaching the top, when the inky-blue Stickle Tarn came into view, there was no missing Pavey Ark.
Right in front of us, her broad rock face loomed dramatically, its weathered flanks broken by small gullies, ledges, and the prominent diagonal scar of Jack’s Rake, cutting a daring line across its otherwise vertical face.
The rock itself is dark, rough-textured volcanic tuff, streaked with contrasting white and black water stains, mosses, and the odd stubborn patch of shrubbery that clings to cracks and crevices.
Below it, a green-and-grey scree bank fell steeply into the dark, mirrored water of Stickle Tarn, adding to the sense of high drama.
Now that I could see the route we were going to take, starting beneath the east buttress at the precipice’s eastern end, and climbing west across the face of the crag, I felt ready. It didn’t seem nearly as high as it had sounded. At least it seemed that way from the bottom.
At the far side of the tarn beside Easy Gully, we began the ascent.
Despite being a dry day in July, every other step I took on the loose scree brought a small slide back – a slow-motion battle against gravity. This was probably the simplest part, yet I was struggling to find my footing, I mused to myself. Then, we turned left – and the proper stuff began.
The Scramble Up Jack’s Rake
We stretched and clambered up the narrow gully one by one, gripping the stone and finding footholds where we could. Disconcertingly, my siblings raced ahead like mountain goats.
Despite some large slabs to wrestle up, the rock groove we started in felt safe, secure, its walls either side protecting us from tumbling off the sheer left hand edge. My confidence rose, and soon excitement and adrenaline flooded the hole in my chest where anxiety had bored.
The first 20 metres or so up to a prominent small Rowan tree were straightforward – and damn fun. There’s something about getting your hands dirty, touching the cool hard stone, clambering over obstacles that brings out a feral, primitive joy that no flat, well-trodden footpath can muster. That elation – that’s exactly why I do it. Why I push myself outdoors, despite that nagging voice sometimes telling me I can’t do it.
But just beyond the Rowan tree, there was a slight obstacle.
A narrow chimney came into view – tight and slick. I wasn’t expecting it. To get through, I had to bridge myself across the corner, pressing hands and feet against opposite walls, hoping friction would hold me until I could shuffle up to a good handhold.
Everywhere else on the route was dry, but here the rock was damp, moss-slicked, and a thin stream of water trickled down the surface making it slippery. Screw doing this scramble in the actual rain, I thought.
According to the British Mountaineering Council, many people try to dodge the bridging move by escaping left out of the gully only to find themselves perched on an 18-inch strip of damp grass, barely clinging to the slope. It’s unstable, exposed, slippery and has been the site of numerous fatal accidents.
I’m glad I held my nerve and struggled on with the main route. Though I admit, I had actually noticed the grassy ledge, and for a split second, felt very tempted by it.
Once I made it through, I stopped for a moment to catch my breath and looked down. Mild vertigo hit me. Crap, we were high now.
I had been so focussed on the rock, looking down ensuring my feet were planted safely, I’d forgotten to look below at Stickle Tarn, (now more of a large-looking puddle than a mountain lake), and the lumpy-bumpy stretch of hills across the southern Lake District. It was absolutely spectacular – albeit a little unnerving from this birds-eye angle.
Once out of the main rock gully, a few exposed platforms allowed for more opportunities to take it all in, and make some space between the other walkers ahead. The popularity of this route can be a mishap in waiting. With stray flying rocks and slips ever a possibility, it’s best to keep some decent distance where you can.
Whilst we paused, I noticed a carcass of a long deceased sheep, bones weathered and matted wool slowly decomposing in a pile. Eek. How this sheep even got down here, I dreaded to think. Poor thing.
Next came a series of sloped stone slabs to our right up the cliff toward the summit of Pavey Ark. Their precarious tilt was reminiscent of those disorientating illusion walls you find in garish funhouses at the local fair – minus the safety rails and cheerful music.
This rock was different – weathered smooth yet textured and wonderfully grippy, unlike in the gully. We slowed down, realising we didn’t have much further to go, and savoured the moment.
We reached the summit of Pavey Ark soon after – a modest grassy knoll, surprisingly unremarkable from this side. Now I understood how that sheep might have wandered over, unaware of the drop that led to its untimely demise.
Onwards (And Then Downwards) From Pavey Ark
To our left rose the distinctive hump of Harrison Stickle – a tempting prospect for even loftier views over Stickle Tarn and the route we’d taken up Pavey Ark. But the summit was crowded, so we opted instead to press on.
Our route led us north over boggy ground towards High Raise, the highest point in the central fells of Lakeland, standing at 762m. Here we gratefully huddled behind a dry-stone wind shelter to eat our picnic lunch as the cold wind battered us from all directions.
Once we’d sufficiently ooh’d and aah’d at Skiddaw, Helvellyn and the Scafells from the cairn, we began our return, looping back via Thunacar Knott and Loft Crag, tracing a satisfying arc west of the tarn to ultimately complete a full circuit.
Finishing with a Wild Swim in Stickle Tarn
As we passed Stickle Tarn again, we weighed up our desire to jump in. As keen ‘wild dippers’, we often pack a small towel and swimwear on these types of holidays, just in case we’re compelled to submerge ourselves somewhere particularly scenic.
Despite the cloud having rolled in thick and fast and the wind’s chill, we locked eyes, and in a giddy moment, frantically dumped our stuff, stripped off, and flopped into the freezing tarn.
After a few minutes with the giggles – as cold water often induces – we dunked our shoulders under, breathed through the iciness, and decided we’d proved yet another thing to ourselves today.
Nothing tops off a day in the fells quite like a physical challenge followed by an icy wild swim.
Guidebook writer Alfred Wainwright described the Jack’s Rake scramble as being at the very limit of what a fell walker can reasonably be expected to attempt, affording walkers the rare opportunity to enter the realm of the climber – an accurate and wonderfully descriptive summary that captures the essence of the route.
This walk challenges you, demands your focus, and dangles doubt just close enough to make you question yourself. But the thrill and sense of accomplishment afterwards is proof that you’re braver and more capable than your doubt would ever have you believe.
Please note that whilst this is my experience of the Jack’s Rake scramble, actual conditions and descriptions may differ. If you’re keen to tackle this route yourself, it’s important to do your research first and most essentially, go during a dry spell of weather to avoid the added danger of slippery rock.
Jack’s Rake Scramble FAQs:
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