Becoming an official Mountain Leader has been in the back of my mind for several years, but until recently I’ve elected to spend my finite annual leave gallivanting, unsupervised and unqualified (but not without hard-learned experience), around mountainous areas, sometimes with friends in tow. I just never got round to booking onto a course, and the pull of new, personally uncharted mountains was always stronger than the desire to plod around familiar areas re-enacting my DofE and army cadet days. This unjust premonition of formal mountain training was upended in October, when Ryan’s long-awaited week-long fishing trip to France robbed me of a climbing partner and gave me the impetus to sign up to a six-day Mountain Leader course in Snowdonia with Lou Tully at Freedom Outdoors.

Sunday: Capel Tanrallt

I pulled up at Capel Tanrallt at 4pm on Sunday afternoon, immensely relieved that Scabbers, our beloved, twenty-year-old, peeling, mossy Toyota Yaris, had completed the journey. I’d spent the previous 24 hours wild camping at Llyn Edno and hiking up Cnicht, the “Welsh Matterhorn”, but I’ll write that up separately. I was the first to arrive at the slate grey converted chapel near the small village of Llanllyfni and was greeted with smiles by Lou and her husband, who showed me round the accommodation and kindly found me some clothes pegs to air my tent.

The chapel was spacious, modern, cosy and well-equipped, with three large storeys, several two-person bedrooms, three bathrooms, a drying room, two living rooms and a large communal kitchen, which boasted tantalising views across to the dark, alluring summits of the Nantlle Ridge. I picked a first-floor bedroom adjoining the big living room, keen to not miss out on any social goings-on, and dumped my unnecessarily extensive array of bags by my bed (I’m not much of an unpacker, so the wardrobe remained redundant all week).

The other course attendees trickled in as I laid claim to a corner of the fridge, and Lou left us to settle in. Our first group activity came unexpectedly early, when several of us were summoned up a narrow road behind the chapel to push a van out of a ditch. With one successful team effort already under our belts, the first evening was spent making polite conversation around the long kitchen table, and on my part cooking up an overly large chorizo and chickpea stew. This would become a chore to consume over the next few days and an amusing subject for the group, all of whom refused to help eat it despite my increasingly desperate pleas.

Monday: Navigation near Nantlle

We gathered around the kitchen table at 9am for “formal” introductions, a course overview and general group discussion. Lou split the twelve participants into two groups according to where we were sitting and allocated my group to Geoff, the other instructor, who would become our exalted mentor and fountain of all mountain-related knowledge over the following three days. We then split up and shared lifts to our different destinations: Lou’s group went to hike around the Nantlle Ridge, while my group met at an incongruous little car park ten minutes down the road to practise low-level navigation on the western edge of the National Park. Everyone politely declined a lift in Scabbers, a pattern that would continue throughout the week. I’d have done the same, given the option of relying on an equivalently small, mossy vehicle, so was thankful for the lift with Connie.

Map, Compass & Pacing

The first thing Geoff taught us was that everyone has the right to roam, ie. go anywhere on foot regardless of paths, on open access land, which is coloured in yellowish on an OS 1:25,000 map. He then covered the “four Ds” of navigation (distance, duration, description and direction), parts of a compass and pacing – how many steps it takes to cover 100m, counting every other step. We followed a wide path slightly uphill across rugged moorland, counting and testing our pacing. I have an attention span comparable to that of my parents’ young labrador, so in my excitement to be in the hills I miscounted, fell slightly short of 100m and made a mental note to practise at home.

Bearings

Once fully ensconced in the rolling, hummocky moor, the topic turned to bearings. Many of these techniques are most useful in poor visibility but we’d been blessed with clear, still, sunny weather, which was helpful for practising. For ease of recollection I’ll summarise my learning in bulletpoints:

• Basic bearings: starting from a wall, we each hid an object, shared a bearing and distance with a partner, and went to find each other’s hidden items. I lost Jack’s bottle and he lost my apple, until we realised that our proximity to a metal gate was skewing our compasses. We were reunited with apple and bottle respectively after some searching.
• Back bearings: once at the apple/bottle, we returned to the starting point by rotating the compass 180 degrees so the south needle was in the “red shed” of the bezel, then following the direction arrow while re-pacing our steps.
• Boxing: we learnt how to “box” around a smallish obstacle by adding 90 degrees to a bearing, pacing until at the edge of the obstacle, continuing on the original bearing until past the obstacle, subtracting 90 degrees from the original bearing and re-counting paces back to the path. Sounds more complicated than it is.
• Aiming off: on approaching a linear feature (eg. river, path, or boundary) perpendicular to our direction of travel, Geoff taught us to take a bearing to either side of the point we were aiming for, then – on reaching the feature – to turn left/right and “handrail” it until reaching the desired point. I’ve used this in the mountains several times before and was reassured to discover that it’s an official technique.
• Handrailing: a simple favourite, with no bearings required – this means following a linear feature until reaching a destination, eg. walking along a path.
• Attack points: this technique involves taking a bearing to any feature that is more obvious than, but near to or in line with, the destination and navigating towards that feature so the destination becomes closer and easier to find.

Duration

As we tramped across the moor, Geoff explained how to use duration as a rough gauge of distance. He estimated that we were moving across the undulating ground at approximately 4kph, so 1km every 15 minutes, plus about 1 minute for every 10m elevation gain (ie. every time we went up a contour on the map). He then demonstrated aiming off by taking a bearing to an imprecise spot on a wall ahead, to the left of a crossing point. We followed that bearing off the path and down a tufty slope, then stopped for lunch at a little rocky outcrop by the wall.

Practice

After inhaling the first of many PBJ sandwiches I’d consume that week, we handrailed the wall right, then crossed it, hopped over a stream and divided into pairs. Each pair took turns leading the group around the rugged ground, which was flanked by the steep, sweeping sides of the Nantlle Ridge to the south and east, and sloped down towards the villages of Nantlle and Talysarn to the north and west. One at a time, Geoff instructed the pairs to navigate to a pinpoint location on the map, usually denoted by some vague feature (eg. a slight hump shown by a contour, as opposed to an obvious trig point), and the others would follow and deduce the exact location on arrival.

We wandered around the rough ground in this way for the rest of the afternoon, taking turns to lead. It was an excellent way to practise navigating and to get to know each other; I learnt that my partner, Darren, was already maddeningly competent with a map and compass, so it was helpful to discuss with him which techniques were best for each leg. All three groups successfully reached their various destinations using mainly timing and handrailing, given the good visibility, although we noted that timing was particularly unreliable on the steep, rugged sections – at one point Mohan and Graeme were tasked with leading us down a steep slope covered with knee-high bilberry bushes, which everyone took appropriately slowly, with great humour and only a couple of slips.

Our route took us across open, undulating moorland to a vast re-entrant beneath Mynydd Tal-y-mignedd, a neat, grassy summit topped by a distinctive obelisk, then along the base of the Nantlle Ridge’s hulking Craig Cwm Silyn and Garnedd-goch. Their sheer, craggy faces towered menacingly above us as we hugged the lowest contours to minimise bog contact, then we skirted around the pathless southern edge of glass-like Llynau Cwm Silyn, wading through shrub and clambering over walls. The balmy afternoon sun cast long shadows which accentuated the ruggedness of the landscape, and the dark, flat water stretched temptingly below us. There was nobody else around and it was blissfully quiet.

After a short climb we walked along a bank that followed the curve of the lake and rejoined the grassy path back to the car park. To me, this long, gentle downhill section felt almost dream-like. Ahead of us a flat strip of fields, hedgerows and villages separated our peripheral moor from the wide, hazy blue sea, and in the distance the dark, isolated peaks of Gyrn Goch and Gyrn Ddu floated serenely above a sublime cloud inversion. We got back to the cars at 5pm and returned to the chapel along a tiny little road.

Mountain Weather

Back in the kitchen, we found the other group spread out in front of a projector, full of excitement about the cloud inversion they’d experienced on the Nantlle Ridge and raring to absorb a crash course in meteorology. Lauren distributed cups of tea while we settled into chairs – I don’t think the two kettles were ever cold the entire time we were “at home” that week – and our lesson kicked off with a Met Office video explaining synoptic charts, which we unanimously agreed was crushingly fast-paced. Thankfully Lou translated the video and delivered an interesting session covering forecast sources, mountain weather, pressure systems and fronts. It’s been a long time since I learnt so much in a day.

The rest of the evening was spent attempting, unsuccessfully, to make a dent on my stew and talking in the kitchen with my new friends. I thrive in a group environment and the camaraderie made it feel a bit like being (many years) back at an army cadet camp, but with very interesting, experienced outdoorspeople, rather than a rabble of kids – although we were quite apt at performing that role, too. I was in my element.

Tuesday: Hiking the Nantlle Ridge

With Scabbers judiciously excluded from the group carpool, Graeme gave Mohan and I a lift to Rhyd Ddu the following morning, where my group met Geoff at 9am in a layby. The plan for the day was to hike up and along part of the Nantlle Ridge, covering various topics on the ML syllabus and practising navigation skills along the way.

Following the same format as the previous day – taking turns navigating in pairs to a pinpoint location – Mohan and I led the first leg up the grassy side of Y Garn (633m), the easternmost summit of the Nantlle Ridge. Shortly after being assured by Geoff that this was a quiet part of the National Park, being further west and significantly less well-known than the Snowdon area, we bemusedly stood aside as dozens of uniformed soldiers trailed past us in large groups. Geoff accepted our gentle ribbing but was otherwise right – we barely saw anyone else that day.

Local Folklore: a floating fairy island

As we climbed, Geoff told a fascinating story about the little lake nestled in the valley to our right, Llyn y Dywarchen. The small island in the middle was once thought to be floating, driven around the water by the wind, a fancy that was “verified” in 1698 when the astronomer Edmund Halley swam out and purportedly steered it around like a boat. The island is also known in folklore as the place where a man once joined a fairy dance and, on awakening from his enchantment, discovered that he had been dancing non-stop for seven years.

Y Garn

We reached the grassy plateau of Y Garn after a sustained climb, snapped a couple of photos by the summit cairn and took in the landscape, which had opened out behind us in a broad sweep of valleys and layered mountains that sprawled, blue-grey, through a thin veil of haze. Just across the wide Nantlle Valley the bulky mass of Snowdon dominated the surrounding peaks, its long, sandy green flanks stretching down to rugged hills and its dark, craggy western cwm accentuated by the shadow of a low autumn sun. Over the top of our ridge, rough slopes flattened to fields, villages and finally a wide, blue sea. Once again we’d been blessed with good weather.

Scrambling

We continued south on the knobbly spine of the Nantlle Ridge towards Mynydd Drws-y-coed, a vague summit gained by a delicate hike along a lofty strip of protruding boulders. The left side of the ridge sloped a long way down into the valley like an enormous grassy slide, while the craggy right side dropped vertically into a vast, shadowy bowl. As we approached the unmarked top, hugging the less perilous left side, the gradient increased and provided some short, straightforward scrambling sections, where we learnt how to assess a scramble by gauging its difficulty, protectability and consequence. We practised assisting others by spotting – standing below, ready to control their direction of fall in the event of a slip – and by pushing their boots at 90 degrees into any dubious footholds.

Mountain Weather: a live demonstration

After the innocuous summit we descended a short way to grassier terrain, following a flattish path that hugged a contour and afforded far-reaching views across the broad valley to distant, easterly peaks. The panorama was briefly interrupted by a white mass of cloud, which blew in and hung dramatically over the dark green swathes of Beddgelert Forest that filled the great basin below. As we rounded a corner we were treated to a real-life demonstration of the previous evening’s lesson on mountain weather: a relentless southerly wind whipped up the long, green Cwm Pennant valley then, on hitting the narrow ridge at its head, sent low clouds streaming almost vertically up and over the steep ground. It was fascinating to watch.

This ridge was all that stood between us and lunch, so we wasted no time in heading for the distinctive obelisk – which we’d looked up at from Llynnau Cwm Silyn the day before – at its far end. The middle section was narrow and scrambley, with a disconcertingly steep drop left into a bowl-like cwm. We hugged the windward side, which meant that we took a fair battering the whole way across but couldn’t be swept into the even steeper right hand cwm, then climbed a grassy slope and stopped by a wall for a relatively sheltered lunch. Geoff talked us through the requirements of a Quality Mountain Day for ML assessment purposes, then we returned along the narrow ridge.

Triangulation

At the end of the ridge we turned right and headed south down a long, grassy spur, which provided lovely views over Beddgelert Forest and across rugged hills to the sea. We stopped halfway down the spur and learnt how to triangulate as follows (this probably sounds more complicated than it is):

1. Find a landmark identifiable both in the landscape and on the map, eg. an isolated peak
2. Take a bearing to that landmark
3. Transfer the bearing to the map by placing the long edge of the compass on the location of the landmark and (without turning the bezel) orienting the north-south lines with those on the map
4. Draw a line along the edge of the compass which is long enough to represent the distance between you and the landmark
5. Repeat twice more with different landmarks – your location is where the three lines intersect

Flora

We traipsed down and along the undulating foot of the spur, still taking it in turns to navigate to vague pinpoint features, and turned left into Beddgelert Forest. All day Geoff had been educating us on flora, and we were all captivated; he taught us to identify several types of moss, lichen and wildflower, and we learnt (through the medium of poetry) about sedges, reeds and grasses. Each species came with an interesting anecdote about its properties, characteristics and historical uses, and I learnt far too much to capture in this blog post (which I had intended – and have already failed – to keep quite brief). I may attempt to recite these in a later post.

A Neat Conclusion: weather, flora, fauna & mythology

We followed a gravel track which wound through the forest between thick, mossy swathes of spruce. After a mile or so we emerged onto a rugged moor at the base of Mynydd Drws-y-coed, crossed a stream that had carved a wide groove in the side of the ridge, and – now out in the open – noted the darkening sky. An ominous, hazy grey curtain was approaching us from behind, so we quickened our pace and were slightly relieved when the cars came into view. Geoff’s teachings did not stop despite the looming cloud; on this final section we ate wild sorrel, examined the dazzlingly purple shell of a violet ground beetle and learnt that the rocky lumps I’d mistakenly taken for quartz, which were strewn sporadically around the landscape, were actually remnants of the skin of a white dragon that had been defeated at nearby Dinas Emrys by the very same red dragon that features on the Welsh flag.

The rain came in as soon as Mohan and I had downed our rucksacks and clambered into Graeme’s van. To conclude, it was an outstanding hike, a great social and the very best kind of school day.

Pub

Respecting the fact that all good hikes should end in a pub, we drove a short way to the Cwellyn Arms at Rhyd Ddu and reconvened over a nice, cold pint (and waited for it all to blow over). However, it wasn’t time to switch off just yet: Geoff adorned the table with an interesting assortment of literature covering the ML syllabus, local flora and fauna and first aid, then launched into an interactive lesson on mountain hazards. We covered the multitudinous ways in which a group can be afflicted by terrain, weather and animals, came to the conclusion that mountains accommodated a disconcerting number of things that should be rigorously avoided, and decided – on my part – that no amount of peril could put me off a PBJ sandwich on the summit of something (with proper risk management, obviously).

We left the pub just as two sodden hikers entered and returned to the chapel bone dry, by the skin of our teeth, for another very pleasant evening spent chatting, drinking baileys hot chocolate and eating – once again – the interminable stew.

Wednesday: Weather, Legal stuff, Ropework – Llanberis

The weather forecast for Wednesday was fairly miserable, so Lou had arranged for the twelve of us to have a morning classroom session in a community centre in Llanberis, half an hour’s drive from Capel Tanrallt. Once again Mohan and I jumped in with Graeme; we parked by a grim looking Llyn Padarn and walked to Y Festri up the wet but resolutely cheerful high street, with its colourful painted buildings and quirky shops and cafes, and although it was nice to be back in the village I was saddened to see Pete’s Eats (the well-known outdoorsey café) still closed.

Y Festri

We sat in the old chapel, which had a cosy, classic “village hall” type feel with its wooden floor, wainscotted walls and PE benches, and started off with a session that built on the weather lesson we’d had on Monday evening and covered forecasts, synoptic charts and the geostrophic wind scale. Lou then led an in-depth discussion on the various administrative and legal aspects of being a Mountain Leader, such as training requirements, how to demonstrate experience, risk assessments, insurance and professional memberships. We then moved on to ropework, which involved a talk about helmets, gloves, equipment care and appropriate rope types for leading a group hike in the mountains. For my own reference, Geoff uses (I think) a 30m long, 8mm diameter Beal twin rope.

The weather did not improve when our time at Y Festri was up. We returned to the cars, drove a short way up Llanberis Pass, met in a large layby and donned full waterproofs for an afternoon ropework practical. Lou and Geoff led us up a steep, grassy, rocky bank above the eastern end of Llyn Padarn, where we split back into our two groups and paired off. The first exercise was “confidence roping”, which is used to help a nervous walker descend a slope.

Confidence Roping

I paired up with Graeme, who was as sure-footed as a goat and clearly not at all nervous, but I’ll use his name (rather than repeating “the other person”) to recall what I learnt:

1. Tie a waist-sized loop in the end of the rope using an overhand knot
2. Get Graeme to step into the loop and pull it up to his waist, then adjust the knot if need be – the loop should be secure but not too tight
3. Tie another overhand knot to stop the rope slipping through your hands, close enough to make Graeme feel secure but far enough to allow him to move freely (roughly a full armspan)
4. With your downhill hand just below this knot, thumb at the top, stand directly uphill from Graeme and assume a stable stance – facing sideways, legs at least shoulder width apart, elbows bent, with your uphill hand holding the rope above the knot
5. Keeping the rope taut, lead Graeme diagonally downhill, switching the hand below the knot as you change direction
6. “Bend” the rope into a Z-shape to gain additional leverage with both hands if need be
7. Maintain tension on the rope and reassure Graeme that there’s a pint waiting for him in the Vaynol Arms at the bottom of the slope

We found that maintaining tension while changing direction was surprisingly awkward over rocky terrain, and even more so over loose scree, so this is on my “to practise” list. With thanks to Graeme, who had the grace to act nervous.

Anchors

Once we’d got the hang of it and finished giggling at the others, who resembled strange, role-playing dogwalkers, we moved on to selecting and attaching the rope to anchors for the purpose of belaying and abseiling. The principles are familiar as I use them when trad climbing – find something that is:

• big enough to easily hold a person’s weight, eg. a boulder, rock thread or tree trunk (at least thigh-thickness),
• the right shape, ie. not tapered in such a way that the rope could slip off, and
• in line with the person on the end of the rope,

and secure the rope to it by wrapping it round and tying the end to the “live” rope with an overhand knot.

We practised on rocks, fence posts and threads, then – to our relief – Geoff announced the arrival of lunchtime. We huddled into his bothy, relieved for the momentary respite from the cold, relentless rain, and I was (for once) thankful for some hot stew.

Body Belaying

Fed and warmed, we reluctantly left the bothy and tramped over soggy grass to a short, steeply angled rock slab, where Geoff taught us how to belay somebody up a steep section of a route using just a rope. He roped himself to a large boulder, sat near the edge of the slab and demonstrated how to pass the rope under one forearm, across the lower back and around the other forearm, which provides enough friction to hold a person’s weight. He then showed us the belay motion, which is similar to climbing in that the rope should always be held securely in at least one hand while the belayer takes in the slack. We took it in turns to have a go, and it felt quite intuitive once I got the hang of the repetitive motion. We also briefly covered belaying using an object, eg. a boulder (no sharp edges), for friction.

Llanberis Pass

As we waited our turns, we amused each other and took in the exquisite view up and down Llanberis Pass. To our right, the little whitewashed village of Nant Peris looked miniscule between the pass’s hulking shoulders, whose dark, rocky slopes climbed steeply into a thick, white cloud layer that hung suspended in the valley. To the left, swathes of copper-coloured heather swept down towards the eerily still, glassy surface of the huge Llyn Padarn, across which the vast, overwhelmingly grey slate terraces of Dinorwic Quarry rose into the fog like a literal stairway to heaven. The weather’s saving grace was the lack of wind. Occasionally the cloud would part, exuding wispy limbs that drifted in and out at random and revealing windows of slate and rock at improbably high elevations, which gave the impression that the valley sides stretched endlessly upwards. It was incredibly atmospheric and incredibly bleak, and I was glad to be below the cloud line.

Body Abseiling

The final part of our ropework lesson involved abseiling down the rock slab, again using just the rope. We learnt and practised the “traditional” and “South African” methods; the traditional abseil involves passing a single strand of rope behind one leg, over the chest and one shoulder, under the other shoulder, over the forearm and into the hand, while the South African crosses both strands around the lower back to the front, between the legs and a single strand goes around each leg into each hand (or a single leg into one hand, but I didn’t like that as much). A lot of rope-body contact means lots of friction with which to control the descent, which was exacerbated by the wetness of the rope. Once again it helped to have climbing experience, as a lot of crags require a controlled descent, and I enjoyed the novelty and simplicity of rappelling using minimal equipment.

A Cosy Evening

Despite another excellent day, I think we were all glad to return to the warm, dry chapel. Graeme stopped for fuel on the way back and I grabbed a newspaper to dry my boots, which was – in hindsight – a good decision. I couldn’t face the thought of more stew so I had tinned chicken soup for dinner, along with a variety of random snacks, and shared with Connie, Jack and Mohan the delights of Baileys hot chocolate with marshmallows (courtesy of Mohan). We fired up the wood burner and spent another lovely evening sharing stories, speculating whether Jack’s too-good-to-be-true second hand jacket would actually turn up (it didn’t) and generally talking rubbish. I was dreading the end of the week already.