The A6024 is a road I've travelled many times, in all seasons and all weathers, as it leads from the A628 (the main Manchester-Barnsley trunk road) to Holmfirth, via Holme village where I once lived. It is regularly closed in bad weather, owing to being very steep, relatively high in altitude and quite exposed. Even so, locals know that the "Yorkshire side" - that is, the road from Holme village to the summit - will usually be kept open in all but the very worst weather, on account of engineers needing 24-hour access to the radio mast at the top. The "Derbyshire side," despite being slightly less steep, doesn't enjoy such luxury and is quite often heavily snow-bound. Even so, experience has shown me that there's a 50-50 chance it will be passable with care, unless the snow has already been compacted to ice.
With all this in mind, I set off for Holme yesterday fully expecting the road to be closed. After a week of bad weather, including 2-3 inches of snow, I knew it was likely. But I also "knew" that the snow wasn't recent, so there had been chance for the gritters to do their work, and if I could make it to the top I'd be OK going down the other side. So I drove past the "Road Closed" sign at the junction with the A628 and waited to see how much conditions would deteriorate as I climbed higher.
I didn't have to go much further before my resolve took its first knock. At the point marked "A" in the aerial view shown here, the road becomes noticeably steeper and was also much icier. A Volvo estate had failed to negotiate the incline and come to rest at a 45° angle, taking up three-quarters of the road. There was room to pass - just - and I hadn't yet lost either traction or speed, so I made the split-second decision to continue. I successfully negotiated the gap, but the road beyond the Volvo became icier still, and I'd reckoned without the chewing up of the grass verge caused by the white van I'd seen moments before. Within seconds my front wheels started spinning, while my back wheels became mired in the mud. I slipped backward, steered frantically to avoid connecting with the Volvo, and came to rest stuck in the shallow ditch.
I span the wheels a few more times, but it was clearly hopeless. I wasn't going anywhere. Luck, however, had not totally deserted me. Nikki had taken the afternoon off, and was at home. And I had my phone with me. It may seem strange (and it's a habit I now plan to lose) but mostly I don't carry my mobile around, especially at weekends. It's a work phone, and I hate taking work calls out of hours. But today, fortunately, a colleague was covering for me at a review meeting (so I could leave early to pick Blythe up) on condition that I was available to handle any "hard" questions by phone.
I called Nikki, and as I dialled my phone gave out its low battery warning. Boop-boop-boop. I've always thought it's a sad little chime, but right then it was terrifying! When Nikki answered I rattled off my situation, asked her to organise a recovery vehicle, and rang off as quickly as I could to conserve the battery. A few minutes later she phoned back with the news that it would be at least an hour as they had to wait for a 4x4 recovery vehicle, but they would definitely be there and I was to phone back if anything changed. I turned the engine off, and climbed out to survey the situation. The car was at a complementary angle to the Volvo, slightly ahead, so between the two of us we completely blocked the road. He had obviously been there overnight - the windscreen covered in heavy frost - and from the dangling passenger door mirror I surmised he'd endured a few knocks before giving up the climb. My offside front wheel stood on gritted slush but would bite into the tarmac if I tried to move. The nearside though, span freely on inch-thick ice. Without a shovel - or indeed any tools to speak of - I had no chance of digging down to tarmac on that side and I couldn't have opened the back anyway as it was wedged against the bank. I got back in, reached for a crossword puzzle, and settled in for a long wait.
Barely 15 minutes later the -7°C outside temperature had crept noticeably into the cabin. I fired up the engine for a few minutes. Steve Wright kept up his jaunty Christmas banter on Radio 2 and I wondered how long "at least an hour" would turn out to be, and whether there'd be any adverse effects of running the engine for long periods of time while stationary on a hill. "Boop-boop-boop," said my phone.
After another 30 minutes, the monotony was relieved by the arrival, from behind, of a Land Rover bearing flashing lights. I thought at first it was the police, and had begun composing an explanation as to why I was stuck on a closed road when I realised it was a BT Openreach vehicle. It pulled up behind the Volvo and two guys walked over for a chat. They'd been on their way to the radio mast (the "Y" shaped structure at the top of the hill just above point "A" on the map). A bit of human company was more than welcome - despite the embarrassing circumstances - and the guys, being typical engineers, began to cast around for a solution to the problem. They were in the wrong position to pull me out, but one of them took a hand shovel and a wire brush and collected a small amount of grit from the meagre piles on the road, and spread it under my iced wheel while the other one offered me the use of his BlackBerry to reassure Nikki I was OK, but still waiting. Having done all they could and confirmed that recovery was definitely on the way, they left me to it, offering a final word of advice to keep the cabin temperature up. By now it was after 3.30 and the sun was only just above the horizon. It was about to get much colder.
It wasn't very long before I'd finished the crossword and began to get bored with waiting. I took another look at the icy side and pondered whether the grit had done any good. Only one way to find out. I started her up again and attempted to pull forward. Success! Brief success, as the front wheels reached the next patch of ice. I span them, and they chewed their way down to tarmac again, lurching forward another couple of inches. I was stuck again. Another recce revealed that one rear wheel was carrying a wedge of sod from the ditch which was acting like a chock. I kicked it free and tried again. Another six inches of progress! By this time I'd gained a couple of feet on the Volvo. I was determined to get free. Surely I could make it the final foot to a less icy part of the road? I was only a couple of hundred yards from the summit and the well-treated side of the hill. A final check of all four wheels and I reckoned if I rolled back a few inches and straightened up, I'd have three wheels on (slushy) tarmac. With that manoeuvre completed, I span those front wheels for all they were worth, steered left and right to help the tyres find a purchase, and with a loud CLUNK I shot forward onto the next gritted section and began to pick up speed.
I made certain I'd crested the hill before calling Nikki to cancel the recovery, and drove confidently past the radio mast, and the vantage point car park (small white blob on the opposite side of the road above). But what's this? I've just passed the last place where it's possible to turn around and... the road on the Yorkshire side hasn't been treated. If anything it's even icier than on the way up. My attempts at gentle braking are successful - for a few seconds. Then the wheels lock and the car begins to slide. And pick up speed.
Like many of you, I've watched the YouTube footage of cars sliding down urban streets in the snow. Funny, aren't they? Unless you're driving. But on those videos the worst that usually happens is a slow-motion fender bender as the sliding vehicle connects with parked cars, or street furniture. Out here, on a rapidly-darkening hillside in the middle of nowhere, there are no parked cars and precious little street furniture. Only intermittent barriers. Nothing to stop me careering off the road and down the hill. I stood on the brakes. I pulled on the handbrake. And the car started to spin around.
I couldn't let that happen. I'd lose all control. I let the wheels turn again long enough to steer back to a straight course, and re-applied the brakes. I'd now picked up enough speed for the anti-lock brakes to kick in and this, combined with a fortuitous patch of slush, allowed me to bring the car to a stop, catch my breath, and wait for my heart to stop racing. By now it was almost dark and I faced a long descent. I could see that parts of the road were relatively safe - chewed-up snow, small patches of grit and even the occasional section of tarmac faintly visible. Other parts however, looked worryingly... glazed. Nothing for it but to proceed with extreme caution. I let the brakes off slightly, rolled forward an inch or two, and braked again. The car stopped. Again: release, roll, stop. After a few repeats I let the forward motion proceed without stops, but still at much less than walking pace. I knew I couldn't let the momentum build beyond where my limited traction could bring me to a stop again. Wherever possible I kept the wheels on snow, not letting my concentration waver for a second.
Headlights appeared behind me. Another car had crested the brow of the hill and started down, apparently making much better speed than I. I stopped and waited for him to pass at what looked like about 5mph. Either four-wheel drive, or over-confident, I suspected he would eventually wish he'd taken more care, but I wasn't about to follow his example, having neither 4WD or indeed much confidence left!
Headlights appeared in front of me. Soon I could make out the shape of a tractor coming up the hill. He noticed my slow progress and pulled onto the snow-covered grass verge to wait in case I lost it. I pulled level with him on the long straight stretch, at the mid-point between "Woodhead Road" and "A6024" on the aerial view (between markers "A" and "B"), and opened the window for a chat. It was the recovery man. He'd heard I'd got free and was on his way to collect the Volvo instead. I told him I was beginning to wish I'd waited for him. It would have been £150 (+VAT) well spent. He warned me of an abandoned van further down the hill and we set off again in opposite directions.
Progress continued pretty much as before until I reached the sharp bend at point "B". This is a steep, drifting right-hander with a nasty camber even in good weather. It was also the point at which the aforementioned van had been left, on the inside of the curve heading up. Fortunately it had at least been pulled partly off the road. Even so, I regarded the corner with mounting dread. The entire road surface shone dully in my headlights and for about 30 yards the road was significantly steeper than anything I'd encountered so far.
I didn't think it was possible for wheels to turn any slower than they had been and still impart forward motion, but I managed it somehow. It wasn't enough. Barely a yard into the turn the car started to slide, and since the camber wasn't in my favour the slide was sideways. Shortly accompanied by a slow and graceful pirouette as the back end started to overtake the front. There was nothing I could do but offer up a silent prayer of recognition that whatever was going to happen would happen, and attempt through a combination of rolling, steering and braking, to minimise the almost total loss of control.
The offside rear wheel hit the grass at the middle of the inside curve, which flipped the car forwards again. The straight stretch of road between "B" and "C" has a wide grass verge on the left and I managed, gathering pace at an alarming rate, to steer for this and get two wheels onto the grass. The drag from this, plus braking (with anti-lock) brought me to a halt a hundred yards further down the road. Without doubt the scariest hundred yards I've ever covered.
Once my heart rate had slowed to 500 beats a minute, I started off again, but since this is a very familiar road for me I knew there was another daunting hazard to come. Point "C". This time, a left-hand bend, so no verge would come to my rescue. And even sharper and steeper than the one I'd just endured. On the opposite side of the road, all along the outside curve of the corner, high concrete kerbs waited to cause extreme damage. I rolled up to the corner and considered my options, checking out the surface across the width of the road. It looked bad. I opened the door and put my foot out to test it. You know when people say "it was like a sheet of ice"? Well this wasn't like a sheet of ice. It was a sheet of ice. An alternative strategy to total loss of control was most definitely called for.
The inside edge of the bend comprised a narrow concrete kerb set flush with the road, with a slightly wider grass/mud verge beyond. With careful steering and extreme slowness, I managed to keep both nearside wheels over the kerb around the whole corner, and thereby kept control. The remaining two bends - another right-hander but with a flat off-road passing place on my side; and another left-hander where the tall red-and-white plastic road block caused a minor navigation issue - were no problem compared to what I'd already experienced, and a few seconds later I was bowling along the flat, black, DRY tarmac into Holme village at a relatively normal pace.
Googlemaps tells me the distance from the top of the Moss to Holme village is 1.8 miles and should take 4 minutes. Yesterday that descent took me an hour and fifteen minutes and by the end my right leg was shaking with the sustained effort of controlled braking for every one of those 75 minutes.
For me, from now on, "Road Closed" will not mean "go on, I'll give it a go." It will mean that the road is closed.
