I have been hiking in the Lake District, otherwise known as  “the Lakes,” for years. Located in northwest England just below the border with Scotland, the Lakes’ climate rules out fair-weather hikers with its high level of rainfall. This climate brings a bit of enchantment to the region; even on a wet and misty day, its eerie silence and shadowy mountains deliver a unique dimension. At first, I was intimidated by it. As time and experience accrued, I became braver. Through all of this, I have achieved experience in navigation and come to understand my limits.

My first solo walk in the Lakes was on a misty spring day. My destination was Easedale Tarn. I started from the village of Grasmere on my three-mile mission. As I finally approached the silent tarn, there was no movement anywhere other than the cascades gently falling over the rocks and plunging into a pool.  The tarn surface was as still as glass and the tiny fish looked like ghosts beneath the surface. The delightful scene was made all the more special because I had achieved it on my own.

Since then, my confidence has increased. Braving various weather conditions during subsequent journeys in the Lakes, I have found myself on top of England’s second highest mountain (Scafell), which entailed a 3,000 feet climb in winter conditions. I reached the summit expecting to seek reprieve in the wind-shelter, only to find it full of snow. Despite the chill, the mountain looked beautiful with the winter elements swirling around it.

Another journey found me on top of Hartsop Dodd, at the tail end of Hurricane Katia. I could barely stand in the winds; it was so strong the rain felt like icicles hitting my face as I tried to look up the valley.

Seeing the Lake District from up high in different conditions reveals a new dimension of the area—a myriad of textures and sights I may never have seen otherwise. Take, for example, a hike that started with a thick cloud at ground level. I knew that if I could get above it I would literally be above the clouds. Though I could not see the top from the beginning, I disappeared into the cloud and persevered until I stood atop the mists below. It was quite possibly the most stunning hiking day of my life. A few years ago I would never have been brave enough to attempt such a hike into the unknown.

Hiking above the clouds

I have now stepped it up to the next level, hiking in conditions that require micro spikes on the soles of my shoes in order to grip the ice and snow on sloped hillsides. I have made my way up the Old Man of Coniston, which, without micro-spikes, would have been unachievable. The route was very rocky and steep with snow frozen into an icy surface that was difficult to grip. However, pulling on my micro-spikes over my walking boots, the tiny spikes crunched right into the snow, each step sounding like crunching cornflakes. Imposing dark crags cast dark shadows around me as I made my way up. Gaining the summit, I looked out over the layers of rolling wintery mountains and felt a sense of exhilaration at my achievement.

Although I have pushed myself to higher levels of risk, I do not take uncalculated chances. I realize that sometimes the bravest choice is turning around if the conditions are too threatening. It can be nearly soul-destroying to make that choice when the summit is within reach, but the mountains will still be there on another day. I want to make sure I am as well.

Braving a variety of conditions has given me a chance to challenge myself and experience the landscape transforming under the influence of inclement weather. For example, sunshine produces a golden glow to walks but eerie mists heighten and test your senses. Rain increases the vibrancy and power of waterfalls and cascades. Wind rushing across snowy mountains creates beautiful icy swirls mid-air; when sunshine catches the surface of that snow, it sparkles like scattered diamonds.

It feels amazing to see familiar mountains in unfamiliar conditions, like I am discovering them for the first time—every time. Sometimes even in the most “awful” conditions the clouds part for the briefest moment, giving you a glimpse at a magical view.

No such thing as bad weather? Maybe not entirely true, but there is beauty to be found in those off-days when the sun is not shining on your path. Take a step into the unknown and find it. 

. . .

Jobi Manson is a self-described surfer, artist, and activist. She's traveled extensively to capture the beauty that makes up the worldwide surfing culture. Find her talented work on her site; connect with her via Twitter.  

This is her story of respecting the power of the element she loves. 

. . .

July 3^rd 2011. Manhattan Beach, California.

I am preparing for Aviator Nation’s 2^nd flagship store opening. Having just recently scored a job with this innovative surf lifestyle brand, I find myself eager to impress. For the past two weeks, my coworkers and I had been working nonstop around the clock to prepare for an epic July 4^th opening weekend. And I mean literally around the clock — pouring concrete, running back and forth to our overloaded storage unit, and driving the U-haul all over town gathering the things we needed. The weeks had required heaps of hard core manual labor, blood, and sweat. At any other company, this would be hell. Here, I am loving it.

Taking a short break around 7:30 pm, we walk down to the beach to play a bit of two on two volleyball. Working up a bit of a sweat, I figure it was a great time for a dip in the ocean.

I would later realize it was the worst idea I ever had.

I sprint towards the water, kicking sand as I run. I feel the water on my toes, dive in and then — nothing.

Sandbar. Shallow. Misjudged the depth. Paralyzed from the neck down, I black out, leaving me face down under water.

I have surfed since I was 14 years old. I am now 24. I have ridden the waves in 5 oceans and among some of the most challenging surf breaks in the world. Uluwatu, Jeffrey’s Bay, Snapper Rock — just a few of my destinations. Through it all, I’ve come away with nothing more then a few bumps and bangs.

Yet here I am, breaking my neck from diving into a sandbar.

Regaining consciousness, I quickly realize that I cannot breathe in or I will drown. Even without any feeling in my limbs, I manage to flip over and get my head slightly above water. Waves crash over my body and miraculously push me back to shore.

Laying in the shallow water, the next few moments are those I will never forget. Like Beatrix Kiddo in Kill Bill, who speaks to her atrophic limbs, willing them to move, I find myself consciously asking my body to work.

I concentrate until I can move my fingers. My toes come next. Ten minutes later —an eternity in my state — I have enough strength to make my way towards the lifeguards.

As it’s a holiday weekend, the scene that is unfolding on the beach means a lot of emergency vehicles, lots of sirens, and me — MORTIFIED I pulled such a rookie move in front of all my co-workers. 

The next thing I knew I was wrapped up and shipped off in a frenzied chain of events.  Ambulance. Hospital. MRI. Doctor. Bad news.

The doctor warns me of the seriousness and suggests that I call family members to have them come to the hospital as soon as possible.

The next few days blend into one big opium-induced blur. I recognize sleep, surgery and the fact that I suddenly have a halo of screws in my temples to keep me from moving. I have morphed into Frankenstein.

The good news: After 6 weeks of routine visits, the surgeon says I am doing great. The bad news falls like an anvil: No surfing. No snowboarding. No biking. No physical activity for 8-10 months. I am crushed.

I take a deep breath. Considering the incident, I should really shut the eff up, and be stoked I am walking.

Nearly every surfer has run and dove into the ocean; it’s natural. We just feel comfortable in that environment and often don’t think twice.  Almost as many surfers have also had the misfortune of misjudging the depth to the ocean floor, just the same as I did.

I tell this story in hopes of helping others to avoid tragic run-in with the waves. Love the water but respect the ocean. It can take you as quickly as you throw yourself into it.