Our Everest
A snowdon story
Note: This was written to the instrumental “On the Nature of Daylight” by Max Richter, see YouTube ↗ or Spotify ↗
The Llanberis Path
Our journey began in the centre of Llanberis, a historic village nestled in the foothills of Snowdonia. Base Camp One of our Yr Wyddfa adventure, and the start of a tale that would shape our lives forever. This was our second attempt at the summit, the first having ended in failure; a twilight snowstorm proved too fierce a foe for two inexperienced brother hikers and their ten year old ward.
It started off easy enough, traversing the steep but rock free path heading up to the trail proper. As we walked, we drank in the majesty of the hills, and with each step we took our new found passion solidified within us. Every now and then the sun would peer through a curtain of cloud, enchanting us onwards to the pinnacle of Wales. So on we went, along the Llanberis path, wilfully blind to the perils ahead. For no leaden sky nor winter’s gloom, no sodden path nor freezing gale, could avert our gaze from the prize we sought, that lonely trig on Snowdon’s top.
"...we looked out beyond the pale.
A wall of rock and ice looked back, its summit hidden by cloud, it's massive body, visible through the mist, hinted at the challange to come"
the ascent
Past halfway in no time at all, with barely the bones of a story to tell; and yet, the true ascent approached. Stoic, unmoving, undefeated. For now. As we reached the foot of the stone steps we looked out beyond the pale; a wall of rock and ice looked back, its summit hidden by cloud, its massive body, visible through the mist, hinted at the challenge to come. It was here that our journey ended on that first fateful quest to the summit. It was here, through tears and unimaginable cold, we turned back. Not this time. As we drew close, the snow line greeted us like an old friend, yet it was a sentinel of the realm of storms and ice which lay beyond, where a toll was to be paid for every step we took. The top of the stairs gave short relief. We passed beneath an archway and continued the ascent in knee deep snow; always vigilant, lest we stumble on the killer convex. As the storm laboured, we climbed, quietly in awe of nature’s way. For as the wind caught the weeping rocks, it pulled from them long plumes of ice which pointed on like frozen fingers, toward the world from which we’d come.
Eventually I removed my goggles, and it was only then that I realised the density of the fog. I looked behind me hoping that they were following close, but I couldn’t see them. My heart started to beat a little bit faster. I turned around and retraced my steps, the Llanberis path is easy to follow so it wasn’t difficult to find my way. We’d started the trail late in the day, too late. Most people we saw were walking the other way, and I hadn’t seen a soul for hours. I really felt alone. And all the while the wind was raging, my vision was blurred by foggy goggles, my fingers freezing in soaking gloves. The forecast had been wrong, sun was replaced by cloud, clear air by thick fog, inexperienced excitement by the realisation of what we faced. We should have anticipated the changeability of the weather, something I had read about but not absorbed, and will now never forget.
"For no leaden sky nor winter’s gloom, no sodden path nor freezing gale, could avert our gaze from the prize we sought, that lonely trig on Snowdon’s top."
After walking for what felt like an age, I saw two oddly shaped boulders by the side of the path, they stood out as the only black amongst a sea of white. I got closer to the dark shapes and quickly realised what they were, my brother and nephew huddled together. Both were awake and fully aware but they were exhausted, they had needed a break and wanted to close their eyes just for a few seconds. The scene triggered a memory of a documentary I once saw, of a lost explorer stranded on the side of Everest, resting for a moment, closing their tired eyes, never to open them again. The Green Boots of Snowdon, not on my watch. We should have turned back then, but the failure of our first attempt was driving us to oblivion. I riled them and urged them to move. We had to press on, and so we did, battling against an innate desire to self preserve. From this point on we stuck together until the end, we knew it was our only hope of succeeding in our quest to the summit.
Every now and then we would pass lone hikers travelling in the opposite direction; all looked tired and wary, some smiled and wished us luck, only one told us to turn back. We’d journeyed too far to give up, and failure for a second time was never an option. We were reckless with our lives and that of our ward, my brave nephew. He never once complained, his desire was as strong as ours and it was him at times who urged us on, and on and on we went. Battling against the elements, battling against ourselves, battling against Snowdon. To the victor go the spoils; we were rich men that day.
Finally after a long ascent we reached the summit, where perched atop a rocky mound, a frozen pedestal awaited us. A relic from a bygone era, when mere mortals sacrificed their lives to gain the favour of an icy god called Snowdon. We soon realised it was just a trig point. We climbed the stairs and touched the trig in unison, whilst staring out into the vast blinding whiteness of the perilous storm, our greatest foe, who even then did not relent.
"Finally after a long ascent we reached the summit, where perched atop a
rocky mound, a frozen
pdeestal awaited us"
the Descent
The hike back down was less eventful, although not altogether unremarkable; a narrow pass close to the summit tested our nerve, as gale force winds threatened to blow us into the misty abyss. By the time we reached the bottom of the stone steps all we could think about was food and rest. We’d given so much to the mountain, our frozen limbs and shaking bodies testament to the plight we endured. We made our way to the ruins of an old cottage, a site we had scouted and used during our previous attempt to the summit. I lit the stove and prepared the food, we huddled around the fire with our hands outstretched, the flames licked our skin as we savoured the meal to come.
The rest was sorely needed as our journey was far from over, and although by now the clouds had cleared, the reddish glow of the winter’s sun signalled that darkness was approaching quickly. By the time we left our camp, we hadn’t seen a soul for hours, we were the last men on Snowdon on that cold winters eve. And as day turned into night, a thousand stars appeared and looked on, as we navigated the rocky terrain, a single head torch lighting the way.
"It took days to recover, but the story we tell is just reward"
bond of brothers
The final stretch is still a blur; my recollections usurped by a tiredness which consumed my being, the parting shot of a conquered mountain. We changed quickly once we reached the car, eager to start the long drive home. Whilst my brother and nephew slept, I opened the window and drank the air, to keep what little wits I had about me.
This was a journey like no other. I’ve never made so many mistakes, and learnt so many lessons, in such a short amount of time. My body was tired. My mind was tired. My heart and soul were alive. It took days to recover, but the story we tell is just reward. A memory that I will cherish forever, of a bond between brothers, deeper than blood, forged on the side of a snowy mountain.
This was our Everest.
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