In the early morning hours before the world has woken up it is possible to hear the faint crunch of boots treading on gravel and the quiet labored breathing of determined hikers. You won’t hear it every day, but in the Brecon Beacons the ritual reemerges regularly. Those sounds of quiet urgency come from the lungs and feet of the latest aspirants to join the Special Air Service (known worldwide as the “S.A.S.”), the United Kingdom’s military special forces.
The Brecon Beacons National Park is a beautiful expanse of green rolling mountains pocked with small lakes in southern Wales. To these recruits the beauty of the park is overshadowed by their immediate task – to complete a daunting 64 kilometer crucible through the park. Known as “Endurance” they must complete the course including a summit of the park’s highest peak, Pen y Fan, in under 20 hours. Standing at 886 meters, Pen y Fan gives the trial its second name: The Fan Dance.
Rolling green mountains of the Brecon Beacons National Park, Wales. Photo by Andrew Zapf
If waking up pre-dawn is your thing then you can play along with the military recruits in a commercialized version of the event with the pay-to-play Fan Dance Series. At a mere 24 kilometers, it still manages to add over 1,600 feet in elevation. The third option is to wake up on a Saturday morning, enjoy a leisurely breakfast with coffee and scones, and attack Pen y Fan in the warm light of day.
Up until last month my five year old son had never climbed a mountain on his own. In the past he’d been pushed along trails in a stroller or carried when his little legs got tired. Something happened on his fifth birthday. A switch flipped. He started displaying grit and determination. His inner dialogue started coming out and I could hear him whisper encouragement to himself on our hikes. “You can do it.” He’d say, only to himself, but also loud enough for the sharp ears of his dad.
Start of the path from Pont ar Daf car park to Corn Du and Pen y Fan summits. Photo by Andrew Zapf
I planned a challenging, but achievable day for him. Starting out at the Pont ar Daf car park along the route A470, the direct route to the top was only 2.2 miles on a gradual slope. In the morning I fed him yoghurt and granola for slow release energy, and packed a few snacks for the way up. At the top my wife and I promised him a rest, playtime, and a small picnic. The day was set to be his.
There were no soldiers on the trail with us that morning. Only other hikers. Singles, couples, and families. For some reason our son picked out a smaller child being carried by another father and singled him out for competition. He must beat that kid to the top. At each rest stop he’d look around for that kid. If he saw him he urged us to keep going forward. His inner competitiveness propelled him to the top.
View of Corn Du from the top of Pen y Fan. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Once he knew he was going to win the undeclared race he slowed down to play with some rocks. He’d seen a lot of castles in our English travels and wanted to replicate them with the plentiful building materials at hand. He picked out three rather large rectangular rocks and carried them the last quarter mile to the summit of Pen y Fan. (There were quite a few out-of-breathe adults that admired him/expressed their shame to me while at the top).
For a five year old, a 4.5 mile hike with nearly 1,600 feet of elevation gained on The Fan Dance is a triumph.
Mother and son enjoying the view from Pen y Fan. Note the rock carried to the top lying in the grass. Photo by Andrew Zapf
A small mountain, but a big accomplishment for a five year old.
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.
Cawsom wlad i’w chadw, darn o dir yn dyst ein bod wedi mynnu byw
Translation: We were given a country to keep, a piece of land as proof that we insisted on living
Etifeddiaeth by Gerallt Lloyd Owen, Welsh poet
The mountains of Wales do not have the majestic appeal of the Alpine crown of Europe, nor the impressiveness of spines that run across whole continents. Perched in the northwest of the country, Snowdonia National Park is a relatively tiny mountain oasis in a land of slate and bog. There lie mountains for the common man. Resolute and dependable, the Snowdonia range graciously cedes attention to Britain’s lowland attractions: Stonehenge, London, Oxford. With quiet dignity and solemnity, Mount Snowdon stands 3,560 feet tall as the Welsh sentry guarding England.
Wales was largely unknown to me. After having taken a weekend to ascend England’s highest peak, Scafell Pike, I surmised that visiting the Welsh equivalent would be a worthy introduction to the ancient kingdom. I had hoped that by going in winter I would experience the ocean-facing mountainous edge of the British Isle at its most pure and magical. Ideally, it would be at its least crowded, as well. In the dark days of January and February, much of the Welsh tourism industry shuts down to wait out the coldest and rainiest season. Hiking paths are accessible most of the year; lodges and facilities for hikers are not.
Wales is perpetually rainy, and that type of climate feeds the imagination and gives birth to all sorts of myths. In the misty mountains there might plausibly live a knight-eating dragon. The eeriness of a stormy night fuels the storytelling around the warming fire. Among them, the legends of Britain’s King Arthur have many ties to Wales generally and Snowdonia National Park in particular. The Lady of the Lake guards the sword Excalibur in one of Snowdonia’s dark lakes, while the Knights of the Round Table lie in enchanted sleep in one of Snowdownia’s caves until the rule of Arthur returns to the British Isles.
I arrived in Snowdonia at nightfall from East Anglia. I traded the flatlands of Cambridgeshire for the wild interior of northwest Wales. Flooding streams and deep mud forced me to abandon my vehicle and trek the last half-mile to the weekend’s lodgings, known to the local Welsh as Helfa Fawr. A raw Atlantic wind blew across the treeless hillsides. Sheep reflected by my headlamp’s light bleated their complaints as the herd parted as we passed. Following in a trot, their ghostly presence drove me forward in unneeded urgency to the lodge door.
The single-story building cowered squat and low under the surrounding hills. It had been empty for months, and it’s dark stillness provided no welcome. It had been a derelict ruin of a barn until rebuilt to service hikers. Inside, the thick stone walls trapped frigid stale air. Not even a picture on the wall to warm them. The three bedrooms were spare, furnished with bunk beds and vinyl mattresses. I rolled out my sleeping bag on a lower bunk and lit a tea candle to help warm the enclosed space. Despite the efforts of a wood-burning stove I still slept with a cap on.
There were several other hikers in the lodge. People I’d never met before nor would never see again. We were drawn together by our mutual affection of the mountains. As the cold night gave way to an overcast morning we were drawn from our sleeping bags by kitchen smells and promise of the summit. Nervous energy caused a few rucksacks to be opened and repacked. Noticing one young hiker wearing denim, I offered a spare pair of hiking pants. Another prepared a GoPro camera, intent on creating a home movie of the experience. Together we were a motley group of novice and experienced hikers bound to share the trail.
Our local guide arrived in time to stuff the last piece of toast into his mouth while flattening a 1:50,000 scale map across the dining table. With his finger he traced our route for the day. From the doorstep we’d retrace our steps back toward the main road. In the warmer months the Snowdonia Mountain Railway follows a 15 mile track up from Llanberis village to the mountain’s summit. We’d connect with the Llanberis Path and walk roughly parallel to the rail line. Our lodge’s location in the park allowed us to connect to it a third of the way up. On the map the Lanberis was a pleasant line with a gentle curl. We expected to reach the summit in an easy three hour walk. Afterwards, it was an open question how we’d descend the mountain. It wasn’t the most adventurous or ambitious plan for our day in the park, but the weather would compensate accordingly.
The weather was going to be the most active variable of the day. In the early morning the overcast skies appeared a bit standoffish. They only offered a bit of drizzle with light wind in the valley. The clouds seemed to retreat with each step uphill as we followed the muddy track across dewy fields. The initial sensory experience was the smell of soggy sheep shit ushered into our nose by cold air. As we ascended, my eyes were greeted by ever-grander views of the park, and the temperature was tolerable at the base of the mountain. Although it was January we started the hike with jackets off, warming up in our fleece layers. Gazing downward only the dirty-white wool of grazing sheep dotted the treeless, boulder-strewn hillside. There was absolutely no wildlife to be seen. There were no secrets in the exposed landscape. As we ascended past the shuttered Mountain Railway stations we soon learned how exposed our path was.
At Clogwyn Station, about two miles from the summit, and only two hours into our walk, we experienced the last placid moments of the ascent. Up until then we chatted easily amongst ourselves. Old coggers walking their dogs, families with children, and chattering walking clubs greeted us on the path. The conversation and cheerfulness of those we met reflected the best of Welsh hospitality and hardiness. I exchanged some quick banter with descending hikers, but their enthusiasm for conversation was blunted by the ordeal at the summit. We didn’t realize it, but we had reached the bottom edge of the clouds. They had stopped their retreat and were prepared to defend the heights from our assault.
As our path snaked into the clouds, each step took us further into the isolation of our own thoughts. Above 2,600 feet the gray shroud held firm and mist wrapped around the trail. It muffled the sound of crunching rocks, and heavy breathing swept away spoken words. Either the guide’s stopped talking or his voice disappeared with the rest of ours. Hikers dissolved into dark silhouettes after only a short distance. No one turned around in defeat. The summit stood tantalizingly close. It wasn’t raining, but the moisture condensed on jackets and gear. The temperature kept dropping as we ascended and soon we began to notice that frost grew on the seams and edges of our backpacks and hiking poles. We donned goggles. The wind punished the clouds, beating them against the mountain’s face. Every blade of grass and rock was glazed with ice. I stepped cautiously on the slick stones of the path.
Strong gusts of wind from the Irish Sea greeted us at the summit. We were on an island in the sky, surrounded by a sea of swirling icy mist. Glaslyn and Llyn Llydaw lakes, and all the paths leading up Mount Snowden, had vanished far below. My sense of jubilation at achieving the summit deflated as I stood in a queue for the summit. A platoon’s worth of hikers crowded around the marker, taking turns posing for their obligatory pictures at the summit marker. Visibility was only about twenty meters as I grinned for my own. Icy rocks made movement precarious, and some people slid around on their butts to avoid an awkward fall. Later I learned that mountain rescue was called out across the park four times that day to rescue hikers who couldn’t contend with the conditions. It was cold and anti-climactic, but it was icy and beautiful.
In summer, the Snowdonia Mountain Railway cheerily deposits visitors twenty meters below the summit. The station has a café where one can rest and enjoy a tea and scone with a sheltered view of the park. During winter, the building is shuttered for the off-season, and the best hikers can do is huddle against its leeward side, shivering while eating cold lunches. After clearing the summit, I prolonged our moment of success with a few nips of warming whisky from a red flask I had carried with me. An American drinking Scotch in Wales is all sorts of confusing, but it felt right in the moment. Within twenty minutes we had cleared the summit and distanced ourselves from the small crowd at the top. True celebration would wait until our safe return to our lodge that evening.
Our path of descent took us through the mists and past Clogwyn Coch, a section of imposing slate cliffs just northwest of the summit, once again in the realm of legend. Edmund Hillary and his team trained on these cliffs before their successful 1953 climb to the summit of Mount Everest. (It is still possible to rent a room at the Pen-y-Gwrd hotel, where Hillary’s team stayed.) We sheltered off the beaten path, by a small mountain lake under Clogwyn Coch’s cliffs, devouring sugary and salty snacks and skipping stones across the still water. From the lake’s edge we gazed up at the cliffs of Clogwyn Coch, their tops hidden from view. Huge boulders lay scattered underneath the cliffs and across the hillside, as if giants had cleft and hurled them. Lines from Tennyson’s “The Passing of Arthur” came to mind as we tread on the downward path:
“. . . So saying, from the ruin’d shrine he stept,
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
By zigzag paths, and just of pointed rock,
Came on the shining levels of the lake . . .”
The route back to our lodge avoided the frigid exposure of the ridgeline trail. What we gained in protection from the wind we lost in slog through mud and boggy ground. I’d learn that all green ground isn’t solid. Constant rain and snow filled marshland and swelled the valley streams. While only a few miles from our lodge, at the foot of the mountain, I brazenly walked across the boggy ground. At one point in the journey I took two confident steps into a watery hole disguised as solid earth. Like the cartoon character Wile-E Coyote overrunning a cliff, I plunged up to my thighs into a stinking morass of mud, water, and sheep urine. My companions laughed as I leaned on my trekking poles to extract myself, thankful the hole wasn’t deeper and no longer fearing wet feet at any stream crossings.
After nearly 8 hours, and about 15 miles, our group had returned to the lodge’s door. Before long we had started a roaring fire in the hearth and made a giant pot of spaghetti and meat sauce. Comfort food for the weary of foot. I exchanged soaking gear and muddy boots for an ice-cold lager and a steaming bowl of pasta. With my pen in hand I reflected on my walk across the Snowdon Massif, on the lush green mountain side and misty clouds, great blocks of grey stone and white mists. I thought of Arthur and his sleeping knights hidden in caves and British mountaineering pioneers dangling from ropes on the black cliffs.
That night a heavy rain swept through our valley. Secure in our lodge I slept the deep sleep of the enchanted as the rain lashed against its stone walls. The harsh weather did nothing to dull my enthusiasm for Snowdon’s charms. In the morning the valley still held tight to its cloudy blanket. Although I had walked to the summit, I still had not seen it nor gazed out to sea. The green slopes of Mount Snowdon remained sheathed in a thick cloud of ice and wind as I left Wales that morning. It was a perfect manifestation of the Welsh flag – a green and white field behind a mythical red dragon. I have since converted this alluring imagery into dragon-filled adventure stories for my son. I’ll keep telling those stories until I can revisit this island in the sky, the sentry’s lonely outpost on the British Isles, and finally gaze across the Irish Sea.
Note: this is a re-write of the travel vignette Walking Mount Snowdon, Wales, originally published in February 2020. Take a look at the accompanying Photo Essay of Mount Snowdon for more atmosphere. Thanks for reading, again.
~ AZ
The Llanberis Path disappearing into the near distance. The top third of the moutnain was bathed in clouds. Photo by Andrew Zapf
A hiker disappearing into the mist along the wind swept trail.
Hikers queuing at the summit. No sun, no view, just ice and triumph. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Hikers huddling against the closed cafe windows, hiding from the wind just below the summit. Photo by Andrew Zapf
A trail marker disguised by ice. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Wandering off trail on the return hike. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Only a short distance on the map. Photo by Andrew Zapf
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.
“All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake up in the day to find it was vanity, but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible.”
The Italian winter of 2020-2021 saw one of the greatest snowfalls in recent history. For those of us in the plains below, it was endless rainfall; but up above among the peaks; it was light snowflakes which make the powder of skiers’ dreams.
In terms of the lives and livelihoods lost from the virus; the story of a lost season of epic skiing doesn’t quite reach the threshold of a tale of woe and suffering.
Luckily, this isn’t a story of woe (but there is some very real-physical- suffering).
Necessity is the mother of invention. And with epic snowfall, closed borders, and regularly updated decrees from the Italian government on what we couldn’t do; we had to find a new way to experience our beloved mountains in winter.
Since fate has a way of bringing you what you need; I conducted training with the Alpini– or Italian mountain troops- who taught me the basics of Ski mountaineering, or Ski-Alpinismo as they call it in Italy.
An Alpini Eagle’s Wings Catch the Snow.
Ski mountaineering also known as ski-touring is the act of climbing up a mountain with specially modified equipment in order to ski down them. On the bottom of the skis are “seal skins” which allow you to move uphill without sliding back down, and your heels are free to allow a more fluid movement. When you are ready to go down, you take off the seal skins and lock your heel in.
Simple right? Well sort of. Like all things, the devil is in the details. I had been interested in ski mountaineering for many years, but in the Pacific Northwest, where my lifelong passion for the mountains was solidified, the skills and equipment necessary to participate appeared too high.
Those of us in America at the time accepted that in-depth knowledge of avalanche conditions (a science and art that can take a lifetime to acquire) and expensive equipment from Europe was required. Plus, if the desire to ski came upon me; I could always go to a resort, which would whisk me-effort free- to the top of the mountain with none of the costs and risks.
Thus, the dream to ski-mountaineer remained unrealized; to lie where all the other adventurous dreams of the day burned.
Until there were no resorts. Then the dream became a need. And, thanks to the Alpini, I now had some of the necessary skills. We decided that every free weekend that month; we would head to the mountains.
As a family, we drove up to the breathtakingly beautiful mountain village of Arabba in the Dolomites. In a normal winter, it is a world renowned way point in the classic Sella Ronda ski tour.
Snow covers the road signs in the Passo Campolongo
This wasn’t a normal winter. The snow was piled so high; it felt like we were driving through a white tunnel as we approached. The lifts were closed. The village quiet. The slopes empty.
With our friend, John, my wife and I rented our ski-alpinismo equipment. Then we promised to meet before dawn of the following day.
At 0530, in the darkness of the winter night, Lisa and I got dressed and sleepily struggled to put together our equipment. Then we trudged outside and met John.
Together we stepped into our gear and began climbing the empty slope. Alone, among the trees, we saw the beginning of the sun lightening the valley below us. Slowly, the sun began to share its warmth with us.
The Sun Creeps out to warm the Valley.
Lisa, a member of the ski patrol, quickly mastered the technique to glide as much as possible on the skis while climbing.
John heads up, led by the light.
Technique mattered, because this was hard work. Our heart rates soared as we trudged uphill. The suffering alleviated by the tremendous natural beauty around us. It was, according to John, our own “Private Dolomites.”
This being Europe, once we reached the top, a small mountain rifugio, or cabin, was improbably open. I can only imagine the lady who served us was hoping the government would soon allow the the resort to open. We had cappuccinos and strudel, filled with the pleasure of hard physical work finally accomplished. Then we headed down.
The snow was perfect and all too soon we reached the bottom where we had started hours before.
Lisa and I were addicted. After a spirited fondue dinner with another couple, we agreed to go again with them the very next day.
Derek, Cassandra, and Lisa push through the powder.
As before, in the winter darkness, we met and began to climb uphill. The mountains on that side of the valley were steeper and the wind stung our face with its bitter cold. At times our skis would slip and we worried we might fall down the face. We climbed higher and struggled at the limits of our stamina.
The wind bites us.
When we were ready to ski down, our frozen fingers had trouble preparing our equipment for the descent.
But once again, we were filled with joy as we took long swooping curves on empty slopes of fresh powder. We had in the parlance of ski mountaineering, “earned our turns”, and as result the descent was even sweeter.
Lisa and I headed out another time that month to ski-tour. Under blue skies we found ourselves surrounded by beautiful rock faces and snow covered peaks that stretched to the horizon.
Snow covered peaks stretch out endlessly.
At the end of the month, in the iconic Olympic ski town of Cortina; we arranged ski lessons for our two oldest daughters. With lifts closed, I carried the girls up the hill after each run.
Then in one of the serendipitous twists of fate, we met Prince Hurbertus-the father of our daughters’ instructor. He is an Olympic skier who represents Mexico at international competitions in a Mariachi spandex suit. We had followed him since our first child was born in Mexico City.
Prince Hubertus, also known as Andy Himalaya and Royal Disaster welcomes the next generation Mexican Olympic Skier.
We commiserated with him on the lost ski season of epic snow.
Except for us, it hadn’t been lost.
We had been introduced to the hard earned joys of ski mountaineering; where hours of laborious climbing were rewarded by fleeting minutes of floating velocity.
We had a new passion and will still be ski mountaineering even when the resorts reopen.
The dreams of the day made possible.
The eternal pleasures of hard physical work accomplished.
Roland Minez 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.
“I expected snow, not icy concrete,” Rich shouts from about twenty feet behind me. Halting, I lean into my ice ax and gasp for a few quick breaths of the frigid February air. We’re halfway up a steep 600-ft snow slope. Time does strange things when you’re zoned in and kicking steps. “I know, let’s take a minute” I mumble back. “It’s probably best,” Rich retorts. “This could be where that one climber slipped and cracked his femur.” I shudder. “Yeah, I can see why, let’s stop here and grab a snack. It’s really packed down solid now.” We both plop down in hardened divots of the icy hard pack. Looming above towers a 650-ft icy couloir, the first objective of our adventure. Sprawled before us lies the tiny mountain town of Lillaz, our humble refuge for our week in Italy’s northern Alps. With my back crammed into a snow dugout and my rucksack precariously resting beside I finally can appreciate the grandeur of the valley.
First pitch of the Lillaz Gully. Photo by Bryce Mitchell
Every year hundreds of climbers and thousands of Nordic skiers flock to this rugged corner of Italy’s Gran Paradiso National Park. Lillaz isn’t Chamonix. You won’t find raucous crowds or a flashy après ski vibe. It’s a resilient town with a unique history and an esoteric sense of solitude. One doesn’t stumble aimlessly into this valley. Everything about it is intentional, the inhabitants, the intrepid bands of ice climbers, and the deep ruts left behind by the endurance skiers. It’s deliberate and yet unassuming. One experiences Lillaz for a reason.
Gran Paradiso. Photo by Bryce Mitchell
Lillaz rests in the historic Aosta Valley forty miles from the French border and three hours from Turin, the capitol city of Italy’s Piedmont region. The journey from Turin Airport into Italy’s least populated region whisks one into antiquity. As we speed past the medieval castles and ancient vineyards, the alpine walls of the valley envelope us. Dead ahead sits the most impressive fortress, the Castello di Fenis with its mighty buttresses and unscalable towers. It’s impossible to not contemplate the past during the journey into the valley. This region has played a role in Italy’s history for thousands of years. The very name Aosta originated with Caesar Augustus after his generals violently wrested this region from barbarian tribes in 25 BC. But it’s not Caesar that captures my imagination on this drive through the plains of the Po River valley, instead it’s Hannibal of Carthage, Rome’s most capable adversary.
Although historians debate the exact location, it was Hannibal that bypassed these precipitous crevasses, towering ledges, and alpine heights with 100,000 soldiers and 40 African elephants during his journey from northern Africa to modern-day Italy in the Second Punic War. The endurance required is almost unimaginable. In similar fashion and a few centuries later, another historic figure traversed this dangerous valley to reach fertile fields of Italy. The meteoric young French general, Napoleon Bonaparte etched his name into military lore by crossing Switzerland’s Saint Bernard’s Pass and into the Aosta Valley with 40,000 troops in the Spring of 1800. Bonaparte’s southern advance was halted at the Italian Fort of Bard, which we unwittingly speed past on our highway journey into Lillaz. These historical episodes reveal that at great costs a few passed through this inhospitable valley, but most would never dare to inhabit this austere region. This valley is rugged, and its inhabitants are no strangers to its allure and hazards. Understanding the history of this region helps contextualize the modern adventurer’s experience.
The area surrounding Lillaz is an alpine adventurer’s paradise with over 140 multi-pitch ice routes and fifty miles of Nordic ski track. There are two parallel valleys that extend from the towns of Lillaz and Cogne—Lillaz and Valnontey. Beginning at the town of Cogne, all Valnontey’s routes rest within view of the 13,323 ft mountain, Gran Paradiso. Rich and I spent three days of climbing in Valnontey and two days in Lillaz. The route—Lillaz Gully—that Rich and I climbed the first day was six pitches of a combination of steep snow, easy mixed sections, and waterfall ice; a perfect route to loosen the nerves and stoke the excitement. There are few locations in Europe that offer the assortment and variety of ice climbing lines in such a close vicinity. The British make the trip across the channel when they tire of the Scottish storms and weather cancellations on Ben Nevis. The French are here to avoid Chamonix crowds. The Italians, well, because it’s home. Wherever you may call home and whether you seek long days of vertical ice or beautiful days winding through Nordic ski trails, Lillaz is perfect.
Right after the traverse that leads to the first pitch of Pattinagio Artistico. Photo by Bryce Mitchell
After our mid-slope snack, Rich and I continue towards our morning objective. The couloir’s ice is in perfect condition. Utilizing dual ropes, Rich leads the first pitch while I take the second. Swapping leads increases our rate of ascent and keeps the body warm. Each section completed offers a wider and more beautiful view of the valley and Gran Paradiso. Climbing in the Aosta valley requires total focus. One must constantly remain present and aware of the sounds, and dynamic nature of the ice. From the thundering of avalanches careening across the opposite sun-soaked side of the valley to the soft thud of an ax striking a hollow section of ice, all must be heard and understood. We top out after the final pitch, 4.5 hours later, toes numb, hands unable to grip, but with beaming smiles. There really is no such feeling as the completion of a climb. Cold beer and savory Italian pizza spur our descent. That night, over wine from one of the region’s top vineyards we swap tales with two of our friends, Baz and Annabelle in Lillaz’s top ice climbing restaurant—Bar Cascate. I can think of no better way to end a day in the mountains.
Post-climb beers. Photo by Bryce Mitchell
The next morning early before the sun has emerged from behind the ridge, Rich and I hungrily stumble into the lodge’s dining room. Three separate bands of climbers huddle together, discussing the day’s agenda over thinly sliced prosciutto, peaches, and buttered crescents. The four young and haggard Italians offer a welcoming nod. The French duo barely recognizes our disturbance. The light chatter continues unbroken. We unassumingly slip into our seats, joining the room’s quiet anticipation. It’s a mixture of excitement and wonder, all stirred together by a unifying respect for the valley. We’ve come from the far corners of the world with one task, to explore Aosta’s alluring beauty. Suddenly, the sun begins to emerge from behind the Gran Paradiso. Like a signal flare all seem to notice. It’s time to climb.
Bryce Mitchell is a contributor to Pushing Horizons.
Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.
The Italian Dolomites are filled with both the most stunning mountain scenery in the world and the remnants of man’s unending willingness to struggle violently against other men.
The wheel of fate had brought us to Italy and we always intended to experience it in all of its full-throttled glory. Roman ruins, Renaissance cities, fast cars, faster mopeds, and succulent pasta dishes washed down with endless bottles of red wine are the hallmark of this overwhelmingly immersive country.
Of course, for those drawn to the vertical world of mountains, there are also other attractions. The pink hued Dolomite mountains are some of the most stunning in the world. This chain branches off from the greater Alps; but due to the mysteries of geology, it is only in eastern Italy that this mountain range becomes a series of iconic imposing colorful rock faces. The French Climbing Guide Gaston Rebuffat said of the Dolomites, “one ray of sunshine is enough to give them life, the effect…make them shimmer, take on color and charm for all their verticality.” Their beauty defies description.
The Pink tinged rock faces of Tre Cime.
But man covets that which is beautiful and tribes fight other tribes for reasons of fear, greed, and honor, as Thucydides so memorably put it thousands of years ago. The Dolomites has been an arena of violent competition as long as there have been humans. The prehistoric mummy “Iceman Otzi” discovered in the glaciers of northern Italy bears wounds inflicted by other humans. Scientists believe he died, not by wild animals or natural causes, but by an arrow shot at him. Otzi was only the first recorded casualty of conflict. For millennia warriors and armies of increasing fame and infamy passed through these mountains. It seems like every valley of this mountainous region is watched over by an imposing castle meant to block the advance of rival forces.
A representation of Otzi, the prehistoric Iceman, at the South Tyrol Museum of Archaeology.
More by happenstance than by a plan, we have sought to experience the great mountains around us. Although the Veneto region has been made immortal by the great trading city of Venice, it is also the gateway to the high country. In a series of day trips, we have taken our small girls up to walk among this wonderland. Sometimes, Lisa and I have escaped to try our hand at harder physical endeavors. Time and again, in our travels, we have discovered the remnants of war.
Amidst the larger First World War, a hundred and five years ago, on 23 May 1915, Italy declared war on the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The Italian or Alpine front was a series of battles between Italy and the Austro-Hungarian Empire, that quickly devolved into a struggle of attrition among the peaks of the region. The tyranny of altitude, cold, and logistics imposed its own logic on the geopolitical desires of the Italian leadership who hoped to recover territory they believed rightfully theirs.
Tre Cime
With another family, we hiked to the incredible Tre Cime or three Peaks. British travelers in the nineteenth century described the peaks as “Egyptian Colossi.” The otherworldly allure of these mountains has drawn Hollywood to use it as the location of an Ice planet in the Star Wars’ films. After hustling small children into backpacks, we began following our friends’ fearless dog in the imposing shadows of the great peaks.
Fearless scout.
We slipped and struggled through spring snow before coming to a pass that opened up to a panorama of rock and ice. The children played in the snow, seemingly unaffected by the altitude or the climb that had brought us to that location. Above us, incongruities in the rock on Mount Paterno attracted our eyes. We climbed up to find hewn into the rock fighting positions where soldiers could observe the valley below us.
Gingerly navigating the slippery snow.
Immediately after the declaration of war, Italian forces were meant to seize the high ground from their unprepared and surprised opponents. However, the inevitable friction of war delayed the offensive giving the Austrians time to prepare their defenses. Repeated assaults in the area and on the nearby Monte Piana led to an estimated 14,000 casualties.
An Austrian captain wrote at the time, “the Italians have justly baptised this mountain ‘Mount Pianto’ [Mountain of Tears]. It has already cost our side and the Italians so much blood and will cost even more, that I do not know if its possession can justify such a great sacrifice……In any case that’s not my concern; my task is to obey.”
Peering through the Italian machine gun firing positions, which they had seized on Mount Paterno, we could see an uninterrupted view on the low ground below. It was their forward most outpost and from it they made it a killing field for the Austrians.
The view from the Italian Positions.
We hiked back down from the high ground. While our children played; the adults shared a celebratory bottle of prosecco. We felt like the encircling rock cathedrals were for us alone.
A well deserved glass of Prosecco
Amidst our adventures, it slowly dawned on us that ironically, war had created architectural wonders which allowed adventurers, many years later, to reach deep into the wild and appreciate nature’s greatness.
The route of 52 tunnels.
Lisa and I had procured a babysitter, and early one morning we drove out to hike one such man made wonder in the wilderness; the 52 tunnels of Mount Pasubio. On a clear day, Pasubio’s limestone ridge line dominates the lowlands around Vicenza, where we live. It’s high ground used to mark the border between Austria Hungary and Italy; thus its strategic importance in the First World War.
The view of the Veneto plains from the side of Mount Pasubio.
All through 1915, the Italians slowly and painfully occupied the mountain range. However, on 15 May 1916 a surprise Austrian offensive almost swept the Italians completely off Pasubio; the last defensible terrain before the Veneto plains. Almost. The Italians remained on the rocky summit and the ensuing battle became what one Austrian veteran described as the “witches’ cauldron.”
Lisa studies the military engineering.
In order to sustain their forward positions, the Italians built a series of tunnels through the mountain which allowed them to travel unmolested by Austrian Artillery. The resulting incredible 52 tunnels cut through rock can still be explored today.
The tunnels open up to incredible vistas.
Lisa and I brought our headlamps and hiked 9 miles along the path so laboriously built over a hundred years before. Sometimes we would scramble through wet tunnels with no natural light that cork screwed in the heart of the mountain only to pop out into the gorgeous sunny day with endless views of the terrain below us. The path was littered with the mementos that soldiers always place to mark an achievement and ensure their sacrifices are not forgotten.
A unit carved its insignia into the rock, not to be forgotten.
In a similar but more manageable walk with our children, we hiked Mount Cegnio on Father’s Day. It was here that the Sardinia Grenadier Brigade entered history with their heroic defense of the Asiago plateau. Our eldest daughter Marie found a rusty piece of metal in one of the tunnels, which she was convinced came from the era of those battles.
Marie inspects her historical artifact.
Throughout the Dolomites, both sides had to wrestle with how to maneuver through the imposing mountains. In order to aid the movement of troops amidst the vertical rock faces, a series of ladders, bridges, and cables were installed and are known as Via Ferrata or the “Iron Road.” Their existence from World War One, has created an entire sub genre in climbing. Naturally, Lisa and I had to try our hands at the sport.
Lisa analyzes the route up.
Via Ferrata is addictive. Hanging off cables hundreds, if not thousands, of feet above the ground below, one feels a tremendous thrill. It was taxing enough for us in our ultralight clothing and modern climbing equipment. It was hard to imagine soldiers trudging up the same impossibly steep terrain with hobnailed boots, wearing woolen uniforms, and carrying their weapons, ammunition, and food. They must have always been fearful of being observed by their enemies in the exposed terrain.
With a group of friends, we tried our hands at what is considered one of the finest Via Ferrata routes in the Dolomites. This route, known as the Bolver Luigi, rises straight up the iconic Pale Dolomite Rock around the old world mountain town of San Martino di Castrozza.
Navigating the Via Ferrata route above San Martino.
We would catch glimpses of the beauty amidst the swirling clouds before being swallowed by them. The day became an epic with pounding hailstones, a thrilling glissade down the snowy backside, and a lightning storm. 10 miles and 7 hours later, after reaching an altitude of 10,000 feet, we hobbled back into town with a greater appreciation of those who had built the route in the first place, long before.
The clouds close in the sheer rock face.
The mountains are neutral and impassive to human ambitions; whether they be the objectives of climbers or states. Time has washed away the reasons of fear, greed, and honor which had led men to fight among the beautiful Dolomite mountains. Only the relics of war remained.
A small town in the French Alps on the border with Italy and Switzerland is a living shrine to all things Mountain.
“Crested Butte is for spectators; Chamonix is for participants”
Marc Twight.
A climber scrambles up the sheer face of Le Brevent.
The Mont Blanc Massif, or mountain range, towers over the town of Chamonix in France. Unlike other supposed mountain towns, one has only to crane one’s neck to see the perpetual white snow of the high mountains above them, gigantic blocks of ice jumbled on the glacier flowing down towards the town.
Chamonix
However close to the mountains one is in Chamonix, this is no wild country. Unlike climbing trips I have taken in the United States or the Himalaya you do not need to carry your food and water, or camp, on a long approach before seeing any mountains at all. Here, cable cars reach out in all directions in what appears to be impossible engineering feats to spirit adventurers into the high country.
In fact, despite- or perhaps because- of its proximity to the highest peak in Western Europe, Mont Blanc, the town has all the comforts of French culture and civilization. One can walk its cobblestone streets past well stocked wine bars, patisseries full of warm croissants, and grocery stores selling runny cheese. Tourists from all around the world jostle each other to capture the ambiance of the Alps.
The mountains have made Chamonix. As a small poor village of alpine herders and hunters, it was discovered by early wealthy English adventurers who were interested in exploring Mont Blanc. A Swiss naturalist Horace Bénédict de Saussure began visiting Chamonix in 1760 to observe the great mountain. He offered a reward to the first who could reach its summit. Twenty years later in August of 1786, a local guide-Jacques Balmat and doctor Michel-Gabriel Paccard completed the first ascent of Mont Blanc. The great British mountaineer Eric Shipton wrote many years later that it was “an astounding achievement of courage and determination, one of the greatest in the annals of mountaineering.” It is considered the start of Mountaineering as we know it.
Statues of Jacques Balmat and Michel-Gabriel Paccard stand eternal vigil towards the summit of Mont Blanc.
From that point, Chamonix’s destiny as the starting point for mountain adventures was made. Although the summit of the great mountain is shared by France and Italy, it is known the world over by its French name, Mont Blanc (the White Mountain.) In 1916, the town even lobbied to successfully change its official name to Chamonix-Mont Blanc to solidify the connection. In 1924, the very first winter Olympic games were held in Chamonix,
It is that storied history which imbues the town with its ethos. Make no mistake, although tourists throng the streets of Chamonix, they are not its reason for existence. Chamonix is “for participants” according to the punk climber and American iconoclast Marc Twight. Like no other place on earth, climbers, alpinists, trail runners, and skiers are the heroes. Murals dot the walls of the town with images of great climbers from the past who dared all. Streets and schools are named after great climbing exploits, especially the first ascent of Annapurna.
“Always look for difficulty, not danger. Go forward, try, dare. In audacity there is enchantment” proclaims a mural celebrating famed mountain guide Gaston Rebuffat.
Annapurna, in the Himalayas, was the first 8000 meter peak to be successfully summited. The pioneering French team was led by the now controversial Maurice Herzog and made up of Chamonix mountain guides. Their feat did not come without a cost. Herzog lost all of his fingers and most of his toes to frostbite. He later became the mayor of Chamonix.
We arrived in Chamonix after driving through the epic tunnel that bores through Mont Blanc and connects Italy to France. We stood in awe of the mountains above from the balcony of our small apartment near the center of the town. This was not the first time I had visited Chamonix. While a high school student in Paris, I had visited the town with my family in both winter and summer and those visits, as much as anything else, solidified my life long love affair with the mountains.
The sun begins to set on the Mont Blanc Massif above Chamonix.
It had taken twenty years to return, but I was back with a family of my own and we were determined to be “participants” in the great mountain arena. We took our young girls on repeated hikes in the mountains that invariably ended with them being carried by us in backpacks and eating delicious crepes at secluded mountain lodges.
The descent to the Mer de Glace glacier.
Sometimes we would be passed by noted trail runners, like Timothy Olson, preparing for the Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc (UTMB). We yelled our encouragement and patted him on the back as he ran by. The 106 mile UTMB race gains over 32 thousand feet in elevation and crosses the borders of France, Switzerland, and Italy before ending in Chamonix. The winner will take approximately twenty hours to finish it. In preparation for a much more modest upcoming triathlon, I would go for long bike rides and runs in the shadow of the peaks around us.
Not one of those peaks were without their own epics of triumph and tragedy. While riding my bike just outside of the town, I looked up at the towering Aiguille du Dru above the “mer de glace” glacier. Aiguille means needle in French, and it accurately captures the sharp jagged profile of the mountain. In 1962 two Americans, Royal Robbins and Gary Hemmings, pioneered the “American Direct” route straight up the pinnacle of the Dru.
The Aiguille du Dru
Gary Hemings had been kicked out of the Air Force Academy and ended up in Europe climbing mountains and sometimes living under bridges in Paris. In 1966, two German climbers were stuck on a ledge on the mountain. French military rescue teams were unable to reach them and one French soldier died in the attempt. Hemings had offered his service and been refused, but he returned with a team and rescued the Germans. The French press crowned him a hero and dubbed him “Le Beatnik.” Tragically, before the end of the decade he would die of a self-inflicted gunshot among the Teton mountains in Wyoming. The author James Salter tried to capture his haunted free spirit in the novel, Solo Faces.
The Aiguille du Dru from the Mer de Glace glacier.
No institution better represents Chamonix than the Compagnie des Guides. Founded in 1821, it is the world’s oldest mountain guiding association. The poor herders and hunters who lived in Chamonix came together to lead those who wanted to go into the high country. The cemetery and memorial in town are filled with members of the Compagnie des Guides who hold the same family names, like Simond and Charlet, and who had perished as guides in the mountains over multiple generations.
Noteworthy guides from years past.
The Compagnie des Guides was truly a family affair and for many years limited to those born in Chamonix. Then in 1930 an extraordinary man named Roger Frisson-Roche,who had been born in Paris, passed the grueling selection process to become the first “foreigner” accepted into its select company. His was a storybook life; climber, entrepreneur, explorer, journalist, and writer. His novel Premier de cordee (First on the Rope) would define climbing in France for at least a generation. During World War Two while a journalist with American Forces in North Africa he was captured by the Germans and later fought with the French resistance as a Mountain soldier.
We so happened to be visiting Chamonix during their annual Festival des Guides. This tradition, first started by Frisson-Roche, was a time for the Guides to celebrate the camaraderie of their profession. We joined them in a small village outside Chamonix called Argentieres, where we were treated to a helicopter demonstration by the elite Gendarmerie Mountain Rescue unit, as well as live music and prodigious amounts of melted cheese and red wine.
The guides assemble for their annual ritual.
Early the next morning the guides assembled in the uniform of their fore-bearers, woolen jackets, knicker-bocker pants, long socks with ropes and ice axes slung across their backs. They gathered at the cemetery in town to pay homage to their dead. Then both old and young guides marched together from the cemetery to the chapel. In a semicircle around the chapel, they remembered those guides who had died in the preceding year and welcomed the few who had made it through the selection process to become guides themselves. A young woman poignantly told the crowd how proud she was to join this esteemed association and believed her father, who had perished in an avalanche years before, was looking down at her.
Young and old guides alike share in the camaraderie of the moment.
On the margins of the events, other guides helped children practice on a climbing wall and, this being a French event, served wine and beer to the audience. In the brilliant sunshine, guides and guests alike slapped each other’s backs and told stories of climbs past and future sharing the aura of those who have witnessed that which is majestic.
Lisa ascends a rock face in the Aiguille Rouges.
We too felt the pull to test ourselves on the great faces that surrounded us. After finding a babysitter, Lisa and I early one morning took a cable car up into the high country to climb among the rock faces of the Aiguille Rouges. Belaying each other up the multi-pitch routes, feeling the rock in our hands, we looked across the valley to the stunning views of the Mont Blanc. At some other time, should fate allow it, we would return to climb the storied peak. But right then, we were happy to be participants in this living shrine to man’s connection to mountains.
Belaying surrounded by beauty.
Roland Minez 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.
Bews-y-Coed, Wales. A beautiful town in the Snowdonia foothills. It's a charming place to base out of if Snowdonia isn't your only destination in northern Wales. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Our final stop for last-minute provisions before entering Snowdownia National Park. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Photo by Andrew Zapf
Helfa Fawr, a hikers lodge with simple, functional, and rustic accomodations for our trip. Photo by Andrew Zapf
About halfway along the Llanberis Path is a post filled with coins. Tokens of luck left by previous hikers - a simple superstition. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Coins left by passing hikers on the Llanberis Path. It's a small price to pay for good fortune. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Llanberis Path. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Hikers gazing into a valley obscured by heavy fog. From this point on the trail the route would be wrapped in freezing temperatures and low visability. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Hikers appeared like phantoms out of the ice and fog of Mount Snowdon. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The final ascent to the summit was made even trickier by the slickness of well-worn stones used to pave the route. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Only meters below the summit, Mount Snowdon's peak is nearly invisible. Photo by Andrew Zapf
As hikers slipped and struggled their way the final meters of their ascent of Llanberis Path, many chose to descend by the unconventional route - walking along the Snowdon Mountain Railway lines. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Descending along the Snowdon Mountain Railway. The train doesn't run in the winter, so we enjoyed a significantly less icy path. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Departing the Llanberis Path and heading toward Clogwyn Coch. The ground was only briefly clear before fallen boulders littered the route and the hill slopped downward again. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Andrew Zapf at the base of Clogwyn Coch. This little corner of the mountains was sheltered from the wind. We took a short break hear to nourish ourselves, warm up, and shed our packs. Photo by Yahya Abdul-Qaadir.
The cliffs of Clogwyn Coch. Edmund Hillary and his team practices their climbing ascents on these cliffs. The slippery conditions and powerful gusts must have been excellent preparation for their summit of Mount Everest. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Rain falling in Snowdonia National Park. It threatened to trap us in our lodge with impassable roads and swollen streams. Photo by Andrew Zapf
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.
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.
Helfa-Fawr or the Hunting Lodge in the dawns early light. Photo by Andrew Zapf
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.
Hikers in the distance, just below Llanberis Path. Photo by Andrew Zapf
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.
Ice forming along the Llanberis Path. Even the blades of grass were held captive by the powerful wind and freezing temperature. Photo by Andrew Zapf
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.
Clouds turned to ice on the windward side of every protrusion, including the smallest pebbles on the hillside. Photo by Andrew Zapf
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.
Author at the summit of Mount Snowdon. Note the ice patterns on the windward and leeward sides of the marker. Photo by Shauna Williams
A postcard depicting the view from Mount Snowdon on a clearer day.
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.
Gazing up at the heights of Clogwyn Coch lost in the clouds. Photo by Andrew Zapf
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.
Spaghetti with meat sauce and a cold lager sated a hunger born of exertion and gratitude. Photo by Andrew Zapf
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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