It’s Friday evening in early July and while most people are winding down for the weekend, Ewan and I are heading north with our bags packed and a healthy dose of optimism despite the sky growing steadily darker and the forecast for rain.
Our destination? The 2025 Saunders Lakeland Mountain Marathon (SLMM). A two day test of mountain navigation, resilience and self-sufficiency held deep in the fells of the Lake District. This was our second SLMM together, following a memorable parent child outing in 2024.
We had everything planned: race bags meticulously packed with mandatory kit, a second tent and spare sleeping bags for Friday night comfort and plenty of supplies to keep us fed. Spirits were high. But the Lake District, as ever, had other plans.
Traffic on the M6 was nothing out of the ordinary until the heavens opened. Waze offered ironically chirpy alerts about “bad weather ahead,” as if the torrents bouncing off the windscreen weren’t clue enough.
As we passed Stickle Ghyll, which I’d scrambled just weeks earlier, the becks were already in spate, roaring down the hillsides. So far, we’d only passed manageable puddles, but just before the Old Dungeon Ghyll, the road disappeared entirely; a solid sheet of water from wall to wall and no end in sight.
That was enough. Suddenly, I was back in Borrowdale, 2008, recalling the year the Original Mountain Marathon (OMM) was abandoned mid-race. Rivers broke their banks. The kit was soaked before the start. Headlines screamed “mass rescue.” I ended up at Glaramara Outdoor Centre, on the Saturday night, watching the event make national news and the local slate mine owner give an interview on live TV.
With those memories fresh, I did what many mountain marathon veterans might quietly admit to: I turned the car around.
Back at the Stickle Ghyll car park, we reassessed. Patchy signal but a Wi-Fi lifeline from the National Trust gave us just enough to book a room. The Coniston Inn had space. Just over an hour later, we were checked in, tucking into biryani at the Coniston Curry House, gear spread out in the comfort of a warm, dry room.
Saturday
By Saturday morning, the weather had eased and the rivers had calmed. After a solid breakfast, we repacked and rolled into the Event Centre at Stool End Farm, ready to start. Once registered and armed with our event T-shirts, we locked the car and shouldered our packs. Ewan began counting stream crossings between HQ and the start. He made it to five before we got to the start and carried on for the first 30 minutes before deciding there were too many to count.
The race began in classic Saunders fashion: a deceptively calm path before an abrupt uphill reminder of what we’d signed up for. Navigation kicked in quickly. A bit of contouring and route finding brought us to our first checkpoint. We were a touch lower than I’d hoped as we arrived at the orienteering style marker but a solid start.
The weather? Textbook OMM conditions, not what we were used to at the SLMM. Persistent rain, brief squalls, percistant clag. As we passed Angle Tarn, Ewan held up well. Morale was good, progress steady. Above the tarn, we made a clean line toward the overnight camp, scooping up controls en route through the mist. Just the kind of conditions I loved when racing more seriously, slowing down the faster runners and giving those of us with solid navigation skills a fighting chance.
As dark clouds returned, my focus narrowed. Getting the tent up before the next downpour became my mission. We’d brought the Terra Nova Voyager for the expected damp weather, not the lightest, but solid and roomy tent.
No sooner had we wandered into the sea of overnight tents than Jon, my oldest mountain marathon partner, the one I raced with in my first event back in 2006 spotted us. We pitched nearby, shared food and stories and collected our pre-ordered drinks.
Then another familiar face appeared an old university friend and his daughter, who squeezed their tent into the space we’d saved. As the light faded and the midges descended, we all retreated to our shelters. My night’s sleep was slightly interrupted by heavy downpours.
Sunday
Morning came too soon, as it always does. Between toilet queues, slow breakfasts, and the ritual of packing away gear, time slipped by. We brushed our teeth, shouldered our packs, and headed to the start.
The day began with a stretch of road, oddly civilised, but soon we were back in a lush bog filled with wildflowers, before climbing steeply again. In the mist, we veered slightly too far right and had to adjust uphill to avoid a crag. Then, for a brief moment, the clouds parted. Sunlight poured through. We paused, applied suncream and sure enough, it started raining again.
Near Bowfell, the route turned rockier and the fells busier. Teams converged over the final rise, then we headed down The Band as the Langdale valley opened up beneath us and welcomed us back.
We dibbed the final control and made our way to download, grabbing a bowl of veggie chilli. Wilf’s-style, even if Wilf’s itself is now long gone. We chatted with old friends and soaked up the finish line buzz. That bittersweet blend of elation, exhaustion and the quiet joy of survival.
Back in the car, with muddy shoes in the boot, I looked at Ewan tired but proud. We’d done it. Navigated rain and rock, dodged floodwater, found our controls, and built another memory to add to our growing scrapbook of adventures.
We’ll be back. Until next year, Saunders.