Tag Archives: Wales

The Fan Dance

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.

Snowdon: Island in the Sky

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

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.

Cutting Room Floor: Mount Snowdon

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.

Walking Mount Snowdon, Wales

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.