Cawsom wlad i’w chadw, darn o dir yn dyst ein bod wedi mynnu byw
- Etifeddiaeth by Gerallt Lloyd Owen, Welsh poet
Translation: We were give a country to keep, a piece of land as proof that we insisted on living
The mountains of Wales do not have the majestic appeal of the Alpine crown of Europe, nor the impressiveness of mountain spines that run across whole continents. Perched in the northwest, Snowdonia National Park possesses the rugged beauty of a land of slate and bog. Mount Snowdon rises as the sentry guarding England.
Wales is perpetually rainy, and that type of climate feeds the imagination and gives birth to all sorts of myths. Among them, Britain’s Arthurian legend has many ties to Wales and Snowdonia National Park. There three lakes have claim to the final resting place of Excalibur – King Arthur’s sword, which he pulled from the stone. And underneath the boulders on its highest peak, Mount Snowdon, King Arthur is said to have killed and buried the giant Rhitta. King Arthur’s tales are not the only myths at home there. Wales has claim to the verifiable legends of British mountaineering history. Dotted across Snowdonia are the names and memories of Britain’s 19th and 20th Century mountaineering pioneers.
I had hoped that by going to Wales in winter I would experience the hardiness of the ocean-facing mountainous edge of the British Isle at its most pure and magical. In the dark days of January and February, much of the Welsh tourism industry shuts down to wait out the coldest and rainiest season. While the hiking paths are accessible most of the year, the lodges and facilities for hikers are not. Known to the local Welsh as Helfa Fawr, or the Hunting Lodge, I and a small group of hikers established a base for a walk to the summit under a cold and completely overcast sky.
We used the Llanberis Path, considered the easiest and most direct route to the top. The path roughly parallels the Snowdonia Mountain Railway lines, a narrow-gauge train that operates in warmer weather. For awhile, the clouds seemed to retreat with each step uphill, granting every grander views of the park. At the boggy bottom of the mountain, the temperature was tolerable. I began with only base layers, a fleece, and my hard shell jacket. For awhile visibility was good and the day promising. Without large trees around we could see across boulder-strewn hillsides into the marshy valley.
At the higher elevations the gray shroud of the clouds held firm and mist wrapped around the trail. The sound of crunching rocks and heavy breathing vanished into the wind. Hikers in front of us disappeared into dark silhouettes after only a short distance. The temperature kept dropping as we ascended and soon we began to notice frost growing on the edges of our backpacks and hiking poles. Donning goggles and an additional down layer my companions and I entered the most frigid zone.
It wasn’t raining on the mountain, but my jacket was getting wet. Ice formations grew on the southern face of every rock and blade of grass. I realized the winds around Snowdon were punishing the clouds, beating them to within an inch of their life. The ice crystals and slick rocks were their final surrender to their harsh treatment.
At the top of Mount Snowdon there was a crowd of hikers waiting to take their obligatory pictures at the summit marker. Icy rocks made movement precarious and some slid around on their butts to avoid an awkward fall. (I would learn later that mountain rescue was called out four times that day to rescue hikers across the park that couldn’t contend with the weather.) Visibility was only about twenty meters. We couldn’t see down into Glaslyn or Llyn Llydaw lakes nor the different paths emanating from the summit trail. It was an island in the sky surrounded by swirling icy wind. Around the base hikers shivered while eating cold lunches underneath the summit, elongating their moment of success before descending again.
Our path of descent took as past the Clogwyn Coch, a section of imposing slate cliffs just northwest of the summit. It was on these cliffs that Edmund Hillary and his team trained before their successful 1953 attempt to summit Mount Everest. (It is still possible to rent a room at the Pen y Gwrd hotel, where Hillary’s team stayed) The cliffs shelter a small mountain lake. We skipped rocks across its still waters, replenishing with sugary and salty snacks, and warming with a nip of whisky. From the lake’s edge we could gaze up at the cliffs of Clogwyn Coch, their tops hidden from view. Suitably impressed and intimidated by them we contemplated the conditions Hillary must have faced on his more famous climbs.
We chose a route back to our lodge that avoided the exposure of the ridgeline trails. What we gained in protection from the wind, we lost in exposure to mud and boggy ground. I’d learn that all green ground isn’t solid. The water from constant rain and snow fills the valleys and swells the streams. While aiming to cross one such stream, I brazenly entered into marshy ground looking for a reasonable fording site. I stepped confidently from a track of muddy ground directly onto a peat-covered hole. My second foot quickly followed the first and I found myself up to my thighs in the bog. The water was roughly 85% rainwater, 10% mud, and 5% sheep urine – an amazing recipe capable of instantly saturating my gear and offending my nostrils. While my companions gave a laugh, I leaned on my trekking poles to extract myself, thankful the hole wasn’t deeper and no longer fearing wet feet at the crossing of the stream.
After nearly 8 hours of hiking our group returned to our cabin. A fire was roaring in the hearth and a giant pot of spaghetti and meat sauce had been prepared. With an ice-cold lager and a bowl of pasta, I reflected on my footsteps across the Snowdon Massif. On a clear day, a hiker on the top of Snowdon can see across the sea to Ireland. This was not that sort of day. That night a heavy rain swept through our valley. Puddles of mud became quagmires and streams spilled over their banks. Although I walked to the summit, I still haven’t seen it. When I departed Wales, Snowdon remained sheathed in a thick cloud of ice and wind, carefully protecting its myths and legends.
Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.
Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.
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