Failure is our greatest teacher. Victories are only good for vanity. I’m not sure if that’s true. In fact, come to think of it, victories can be highly instructive. But it’s the sort of thing to make you feel better when you’re soaked and shivering on a Welsh mountain in December.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The forecast had looked so promising when I set off on the train from Southampton Central two days before. Getting from the south of England to Snowdonia by public transport in the off-season is no mean feat. Change at Crewe onto the stopping service bound for Anglesey; decamp among screeching seagulls at Llandudno Junction; board a replacement bus up to Betws-y-Coed; and, finally grab the last service of the day into the mountains at Pen-y-Pass.
Why submit myself to the temper tantrums of Britain’s rural rail network? Well, I had a week off work and, rather than mope around in my flat, I decided to head for the hills. Snowdonia boasts the wildest territory in Britain south of the Scottish Highlands, holding a cluster of 15 peaks over the arbitrary, but nonetheless mythical, mark of 3,000ft. To climb them all in 24 hours is a famous feat of endurance for a long summer day. This being December, I set myself the more modest goal of tackling them in three bite-sized batches.
On the road again
It was pitch dark and close to freezing as I huddled in the bus shelter. I switched on my phone torch and squinted at the faded timetable for the route to Pen-y-Pass youth hostel. Two others arrived, a guy and a girl, about my age. In a spirit of openness borne from our kinship against the night, we began to talk. The guy, Adam, was an American with lank, unwashed hair and a furtive gaze, but he seemed friendly enough. The girl, Gemma, was blonde and her face held the rugged glow that comes from spending a lot of time outdoors. They weren’t together.
Adam was carrying only a small rucksack that looked like it belonged to a schoolkid. Next to my 70-litre expedition pack filled with winter hiking gear, it seemed miniscule. I told him how I impressed I was that he managed to travel so light at this time of year. He leaned in close, and the smell of sour sweat washed over me. “It’s because I only have one pair of clothes,” he whispered conspiratorially.
Relationship counselling
Finally, the bus arrived. We were the only three passengers. I sat next to Gemma and chatted about her work at a swanky nearby guest house until it was time for her to get off. Adam plopped into the recently vacated seat, his distinctive fragrance enveloping me for a second time.
“She was cute,” he said, shooting me a sidelong glance.
“She was,” I agreed, remembering the way her long hair whipped free as she stepped into the night.
“I’m not very good with women,” he confessed. “What do you think of my chances with a girl like that?”
“They might be better with a second set of clothes,” I ventured cautiously.
His eyes flicked up to regard me without reproach.
“You think so?” he said, seeming to weigh up the possibility. If there was any trace of irony in his tone, I for one could not discern it.
Ask the mountains
Adam and the rest of the guys in the dorm room were still sound asleep when I set off early the next morning. The dawn was purple and rose, the air as crisp and fresh as another Adam might have breathed on the first morning in Creation. A group of soldiers in full camouflage were assembled in the car park, steam swirling up from their flasks of coffee. They tramped off into the valley, while I began along the approach path to Crib Goch. There was no one else in sight. The mountains were mine, and mine alone.
I rounded a corner and came up short at my first sight of Snowdon. In spite of summiting it several times down the years, I had never before seen the peak free from cloud. It rose in a rugged black pyramid, steep cliffs dropping away beyond my field of view to the deep shadow over Glaslyn Lake. Legend has it that King Arthur himself threw Excalibur into these waters to be kept safe by the Lady of the Lake until a worthy hero shall return to reclaim it.
Living on the edge
My route to the peak was via the soaring and exposed Crib Goch ridge, consistently ranked among the finest arêtes in Britain. There was ice on a few sections of the approach but not enough to require my crampons. I was wearing stiff-soled, B3 mountaineering boots in readiness for full winter conditions. On the dry rock they were unwieldy, like having blocks of wood strapped to my soles. Combined with my heavy pack and efforts to film various sections, I had to be cautious not to topple into oblivion. My mind buzzed happily in the sweet spot between excitement and fear. I believe they call it a natural high.
On the final stretch to the top, I was joined by a handful of other hikers hauling themselves up the less exposed Pyg track. We exchanged cameras to snap a few summit pics, as was the norm in those halcyon, pre-Covid days. I spotted a raven not 10m away, ruffling its glossy black feathers above a thousand feet of crumbling rock. Cloud boiled over the Watkin ridge and ran like dry ice down the side of the valley. A gust of wind blew up along runnels rimed with frost. In spite of my cheeks glowing from the exertion of the climb, I shivered. This was no place to linger.
The weather turns
The wind howled on another mountaintop. This time I wasn’t just shivering, but practically convulsing. Pellets of hail stung my face, and the dense cloud made it seem like the world ended at the next boulder. If the angry orange mass of contour lines on my map was anything to go by, it probably did. There were cliffs everywhere. The light was failing, and if I went on, I would be slithering down the north face of Tryfan at night. Or quite possibly tumbling down it.
Let me back up for a second. I had descended from Snowdon in mellow sunshine the previous afternoon and set down my pack in the sleepy village of Llanberis. That night I ate like a starving man and slept like a dead one. I wasted a good portion of the next morning traipsing around a bog while the weather Gods plotted my downfall.
Eventually, I located the path into the high mountains of the Glyderau. Thick mist had settled over everything, making it hard to navigate and slowing my progress to a crawl. As the temperature dropped, the blood fled from my extremities, and I delved into the bottom of my pack for gloves. That was when I realised they were both right-handers.
When dreams meet reality
Despite freezing fingers, I soldiered on to the summit of Glyder Fawr, number six in my fifteen-strong challenge. The volcanic rock of the Glyders is fractured into jagged slabs as though a giant has taken a jackhammer to his patio. It’s not the easiest terrain at the best of times, but now it was slick with condensation.
I took out my phone, dreading to see the time, but needing to know. Gone 3pm. Not long enough to traverse round to Tryfan and descend the north ridge in daylight. If you could call this grey shroud daylight. I cursed bitterly, but I was alone, and I knew better than to carry on. My fifteen peaks challenge was over.
Homeward bound
A coupling rattled as the train ran over an intersection on its way east. I looked out of the rain spattered window and caught the distant outline of mountains wreathed in cloud. They reminded me of failure. I forced my gaze back to the vomit-coloured upholstery of the carriage. A storm had rolled in overnight, and 70 mph winds were raking the summits. Anyone up there now was liable to be blown as far as the Irish Sea.
My thoughts turned philosophical. People might blow to and fro, but the mountains would await my return. There would be other days, other schemes, other climbs. For, after all, what is failure but a staging post on the road to success.
Want to read about some of my more successful mountaineering trips? Check out these posts about Mont Blanc and Kilimanjaro.
Photo credits
Bus stop at night: Darren Viollet on Unsplash