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Snowdonia |
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TRYFAN |
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Making a molehill into a mountain... |
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I remember the morning we left for North Wales, to Snowdonia. It a murmer of the looming excitement of the weeks events was stirring a general giddiness in all of us. None of us really knew what to do, but we didn't care - we just wanted to do it. We crammed into two tiny little vans with very little ventilation, terrible gas mileage and cornering that gives one the sensation of tipping over everytime it hit a round-about. And when we staggered into our lovely Georgian manor of a hostel in the fresh, chilly, mountain air of Snowdonia, it was more refreshing than ever and about thirty times as cold. We had arrived.
Very little instruction was given, only word that it would be challenging in every aspect of our lives, not just the physical exhaustion of playing in the mountains and trekking about in mud, but also socially in that our five groupmates would also share our sleeping quarters, our food (and the very small space in which to prepare it) and would also be our support through the week, and emotionally challenging as people like me tend to shed the odd tear when frustrated with things they cannot do. We were allotted equipment and told to be up bright and early, swallow our oatmeal and make sure to pack extra socks. |
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Above: the spectacular view from our hostel in Snowdonia National Park. Right: our quaint Georgian manor, now hostel, AKA Headquarters for the week |
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Tryfan: the misty mountain |
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At the ungodly hour of 7 a.m., we packed our extra socks, forced down the oatmeal and sat nervously for half an hour waiting for the days instructions. We were herded into the vans yet again and taken to a lake at the base of a large rock formation. What precisely it was I couldn't say at the time, as the entire top half of it was shrouded in mist. You know the Celts and Vikings associated strange things with the mist, they found it unsettling and thought it dangerous. They were right. For once we had made it up the grueling uphill switchbacks (which took awhile as I had to stop every five seconds to catch my breath) I was able to see, at least ten feet in front of me, what the rest of the day was going to be like: very steep, sharp craggy rocks that went straight up, or if you slipped, straight down into the cloudy abyss below. Just a bit unsettling. This was a scramble, which meant that you didn't have the happy harness and rope as you do rock climbing, instead you have your hiking boots, your numb bare hands, and the person behind you to help you up. Each step takes you about four feet in elevation, as you reach high and hoist yourself up, a rather tricky feat as the mist has dampened the rocks and made the odd patch of dirt into mud. Some of these were so steep, you had a boost from below and a helping hand from above and even still you had to ease onto your knees to try and stable yourself from the howling gusts that decide to crop up when you're already terrified. Visibility was nill, and the wind was blowing you here and there, the mist turning into rain that stings your face, your body is so sore and you know that if you so much as slip, you could very easily die - and I stopped breathing. I had a panic attack right there on the side of that wind-beaten mountain, shaking all over and trying not to cry and wanting terribly to get down. Jethro, our guide, and one of my other groupmates came down and told me that we could turn around if I wanted, that it was just a mountain and would be there another day, that it was okay for me to not reach the top if I felt I couldn't do it, no harm in it. This of course made me want to get to the top more, funny how that's usually the case. I think they tell you those things on purpose, reverse psychology or something. Anyway, it worked. I calmed down, had a bit of chocolate for energy (my favorite part about mountaineering) and clamoured about to where there was a bit of shelter, the wind began to die down, and though I still couldn't see a thing, wasn't so afraid anymore. We kept climbing and climbing, no idea to where or how high until from somewhere above me, someone grabbed my sling (the fun rope tied around me for safety) and basically pulled me off my feet onto a plateu and said "Welcome to the summit." I, not being able to see my arms in front of my body, said "It is?" and shrugged, fumbled my way |
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hrough the fog to my group and then began thinking that I was suddenly very glad for the cloud, as that way I couldn't see what lay below me when Jethro said that this was Mt. Tryfan and was 3,080 feet tall and that we had climbed a good 2,000+ of them. Suddenly my legs were very sad. Not so much that they felt let down, that they had believed they were climbing Everest or anything, but that they realised that 2,000 feet up meant 2,000 feet down too. Sometimes I think down is harder. Especially when it's muddy and the side you go down is essentially scree and loose rocks. I fell at least 23 times, got a good knock about here and there and more than once put my boot right through the marsh into muddy hell. Frustrated with the day and how I just didn't seem to belong, I wasn't physically able to do this stuff and how much effort I had to put in compared with everyone else who seemed at ease - I came back to the hostel and cried a good ten minutes, trying to decide whether or not I had achieved anything at all that day. Had I proved to myself that I could do it, or had I given myself proof as to why I shouldn't do things like this... And to think, I got to do this for two more days. |
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Above: lunch in the mist atop Mt. Tryfan
Below: Twin Peaks, Adam&Eve, barely visible in the mist |
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