Stanage at play

On the evening the snow was about to disappear - a strange collective of fifteen local individuals marched up the road behind the Scotsman's pack in Hathersage upto a completely snowbound Stanage sporting an assortment of headtorches, sharp pointy ice climby things , sledges and whiskey hipflasks.

There was little or no rock to be seen as everything was covered in drift. The road helkd three to four feet of drift in places and it was frozen crunchy.

From 6pm to midnight a festival of snow was had by all. Stomping, kicking, punching up the hard-soft snow that smothered the gritstone edge of fame. It was a near perfect evening, tunneling through giant cornices of surrealism, sledging down extreme grit routes and generally being boys at play - awesome.

Screams, giggles and gasps of awe captivated all those there - the Thursday night club was living one of those great moments. The views were unique, the situations were great fun and the company wicked.

The weather held a clear night and the only mist was the frozen breath that blew from draw dropped expressions as we rounded each buttress to witness another area equally draped in a quite splendid blanket of the soft white stuff.