Category: mountaineering

Mountain Leader Training: Part 2 of 2

1 Comment

Thursday: Scrambling in the Ogwen Valley

As if repentant for the previous day’s soaking, the weather looked to be dry and sunny – perfect for a day scrambling in the Ogwen Valley. After rushing back and forth to collect my gear from various locations around Capel Tanrallt, I bundled into Graeme’s van and spent the 45 minute journey interrogating him about a trip he’d taken to Greenland.

The route became very scenic as we entered the sweeping Nant Ffrancon valley from Bethesda. Rugged hills rose upwards either side of us and a wide, meandering river snaked between lush green fields along the broad base of the valley. The anticipation of approach grew with the mountains and reached its pinnacle as we rounded a corner into the long Ogwen Valley, which sits between the towering, lumpy Carneddau range and the set-back Glyderau, whose dark, jagged faces – although now quite familiar – never lose their ominous, tantalising mystery. After a short drive along the bank of Llyn Ogwen, we met the others in a roadside car park and walked to the little National Trust centre by Ogwen Cottage.

Lou met us there just after 9am, delivered the sad news that Geoff had developed a cold so couldn’t make it, and introduced us to Dave, who would be in charge of the other group for the day. She then went over some scrambling “theory”, which covered what equipment to take and key considerations when leading a group. We split into our two groups of six and headed up towards Llyn Idwal, with Lou taking charge of my group.

Testing the Group

The walk up to Idwal was as scenic as ever. The great, craggy ridge of the Glyderau towered in a great silhouette over undulating, rugged moraines carpeted in swathes of sandy grass, clumps of heather and a hectic array of boulders, and the morning sun – which hung low in the gap between Tryfan and Bristly Ridge – accentuated the darkness of the mountains against the warm, golden glow of the moors. On the way up we stopped several times at different boulders for little lessons on leading a scrambling group, which I summarise as follows:

  •  Before committing to a route, assess each individual’s ability on technical terrain by watching them move up and over steep-angled, low-level boulders, giving pointers on technique where appropriate
  • Help others on difficult moves by holding their heel and pushing their foot into the rock at a 90 degree angle
  • “Spot” others on steep or insecure sections by standing below them, feet wide, hands out and elbows bent, ready to control their direction of fall in the event of a slip
  • Use games such as “the floor is lava” (a personal favourite in all situations) combined with “race to the lake” to determine the more and less confident members of a group on rocky ground

After lots of practice on various boulders near the path, we reached glassy Llyn Idwal via a floor is lava race, in which Darren indiscriminately charged through the rest of us scattering bodies as he went. This hanging lake is elevated in an atmospheric glacial cwm and has its own fittingly charming (if slightly melancholic) legend, which Lou conveyed very well – we were captivated.

Idwal Legend

Prince Idwal was the much-loved and widely talented grandson of an ancient Welsh king, who was taken to the lake one day by his jealous cousin. His cousin, knowing that the prince could do everything except swim, pushed him in. The prince drowned, the lake was given his name, and to this day no bird will fly over the lake’s surface as a mark of respect.

After scrutinising the sky above Llyn Idwal for signs of avian passage to no avail, we accepted the legend as fact and stopped for “first lunch” (a unanimously celebrated concept) on the eastern side of the lake. As we ate we took in the great cwm, whose vast, craggy faces towered menacingly above us on three sides. On the far side the sinister, black cleft of the Devil’s Kitchen loomed high above the water; mist often emanates from that rocky chasm and drifts around the bowl-like cwm, which means the Devil is cooking – another fact, although harder to verify. Today was clear, and the only mist in sight came as steam from my thermos of interminable stew.

Leading a Scramble

First lunch finished, we walked to the south-eastern end of the lake and stood by Idwal Slabs, which I’d climbed the previous year. We were to scramble up Senior’s Gully, a grade I route that follows a blocky channel up the northern side of Glyder Fawr. We set off upwards and Lou demonstrated how to lead a group scramble. From memory, the notable points were:

  • Choose the safest-looking route, taking into account difficulty, protectability and consequence, but allow confident group members to pick their own route within reason
  • As a leader, station yourself at the crux of difficult sections in a place where you can help group members without getting in the way
  • Help others on technical moves by spotting, holding their boots into the wall and steering them in the right direction by holding their rucksack
  • Ensure you can communicate with (and ideally see) the whole group at all times by staying within calling distance and letting everyone catch up before rounding corners
  • Position stronger group members next to less confident members so they can provide assistance, and place a stronger member at the back of the group

Senior’s Gully

The gully was fairly “technically” easy, with an abundance of good holds and grassy, heathery ledges, a relatively shallow gradient (for a gully) and just a couple of trickier moves up slabs, but although solid the rock was quite wet, which made it slippery and slowed us down significantly. It did, however, mean that we had plenty of practice helping others up the more technical moves, as water dampens confidence as well as rock.

We took turns leading and found that there was significantly more to think about on-the-spot than when leading a hike. Visibility of the gully ahead was often limited to just the next few moves, so the safest route wasn’t always obvious, and it was quite tricky focusing on personal safety, route choice and the rest of the group at the same time. I also found it quite hard to determine the best place to stop and assist others, having never really scrambled with anyone other than Ryan, who is so absurdly confident that I never really think about him.

We reached the top just after 3pm, a couple of hours after setting off upwards. We had second lunch at the edge of the Nameless Cwm, which isn’t actually nameless as it’s called Cwm Cneifion. Google reckons this means “cwm of the tufts of sheared wool” – I prefer the more mysterious (and more pronounceable) title. I celebrated the long-awaited final mouthful of stew and watched enviously as a couple of climbers made their way up Cneifion Arete. After pinpointing our location on the map (we were never safe from nav practice) we started the descent down the steep, winding path that takes a diagonal line down the western flank of Y Gribin.

We wound down the side of the grassy ridge, chatting away and making plans to go to the pub. We reached Llyn Idwal and returned to Ogwen Cottage area on the slabby path we’d walked in, coincidentally meeting the other group right at the end. Lou debriefed our group, which was really helpful as it cemented in everything we’d covered, and we returned to the cars in great anticipation of a good pub meal.

Evening

All twelve of us reconvened in the Black Boy at Caernarfon, a large, quirky, charmingly old-fashioned and necessarily haunted pub set within surprisingly intact, battlemented castle walls. We took two six-seater tables and most of us tucked into a hearty pie and pint, which was too much for Darren, who completely lost all decorum in a mad giggling fit just as the waitress came over – I can’t remember why but it was at Jack’s expense. The merriment continued in Connie’s car and back at the chapel, where Jack produced an elaborate cheeseboard and we celebrated the week over a few drinks with the help of an 80’s classics playlist. I wasn’t ready to leave the following morning, both literally and emotionally.

Friday: Expedition up Yr Aran, Wild camp, Night navigation

After a mad morning doing all the packing I should have done the night before instead of eating cheese and drinking wine, I loaded all my gear into poor Scabbers and – with great sadness – left Capel Tanrallt for the last time. After a relatively dismal 25 minute drive along narrow, winding roads, rain pounding the windscreen the whole way, we all met at Caffi Gwynant, a cosy, elegant converted-chapel-come-cafe nestled in the Nant Gwynant valley.

We had our fill of sausage sandwiches and coffee, then met Lou and Smyrff (the other instructor) in the courtyard for an expedition brief. We were to hike up Yr Aran via a set but undisclosed route, taking it in turns to navigate legs individually using a 1:50,000 scale map. Then we would hike to an overnight camp spot, pitch our tents, spend the evening doing a night navigation exercise and return to the cars the next morning.

Morning: wet, windy & very nearly miserable

We set off towards Snowdon on the Watkin path just after 11am. The first section took us gently uphill along the edge of an old broadleaf wood, overlooking the increasingly scenic Nant Gwynant valley, which was green, lush and flanked by thickly forested hillsides set beneath high, oddly lumpy ridges. We were bemused to spot an alpaca chewing nonchalantly among sheep in a clump of copper-coloured bracken, and Darren – who was leading this leg – talked us through the seven S’s of camouflage, which are useful to consider if you need to attract (or avoid) attention in the mountains: shape, silhouette, sound, shadow, shade, shine and speed (movement).

We reached the Afon Cwm Llan after a kilometre and continued on the Watkin path, which ran parallel to the river and climbed steadily up a wide valley. Trees no longer shielded us from the weather and I felt sorry for Mohan, who led this section through torrential rain and relentless wind. Thankfully the scenery was stunning despite the grim sky. The river cut a snaking channel down from Cwm Tregalen ahead, whose towering walls loomed high in the distance, and carved between the sloping sides of Y Lliwedd, Allt Maenderyn and Yr Aran. The water plunged downwards in several places via rushing falls, which were so white they seemed to emit light amongst the swathes of russet-coloured bracken, yellow-green grass and fading early autumn trees.

We rounded a craggy corner and turned left off the Watkin Path onto the Cambrian Way, which was slightly sheltered thanks to Yr Aran’s bulky presence. Connie took the lead and (being a doctor) gave a very useful crash course in first aid, which kept us entertained during a long, steady slog up the side of Snowdon’s south ridge. As we climbed, Lou pointed out a disused slate quarry across the valley, which consisted of some ruined buildings, spoil heaps and great slate terraces forming large platforms up the lower reaches of Y Lliwedd. The steady chatter fortified our collective mood against the miserable weather.

The weather breaks

We stopped for first lunch just below the col between Yr Aran and Snowdon’s south ridge, then tramped up its slippery, slatey side to receive a hearty battering from the wind. We left the path and Jack navigated us south along the rugged crest to a small mound, at which point the rain finally abated and the sun cast an ethereal, entirely unexpected golden glow over the landscape, which now revealed itself as a vast, wild sprawl of lumpy ridges and irregular summits. Old slate works formed a strangely industrial foreground, spread across the flattish area by the col, and the Nantlle Ridge stretched out along the western horizon, its green flanks now bathed in low sunlight above the wide Beddgelert valley. Accordingly, we all took a sudden interest in photography:

Yr Aran

My turn to navigate was spent leading the group down the awkward back of the mound, over a wall, through a bog and up the steep north side of Yr Aran. The others had all given interesting talks on relevant subjects while navigating, which I failed to match with my sermon on the ecological importance of peat bogs. In an attempt to be more interesting I mentioned that George Mallory, the Everest pioneer, trained for the Himalayas on the craggy northeastern side of Y Lliwedd, the vast ridge over to our left. Having exhausted my reserves of tenuously relevant knowledge, I tramped up the mountain with the others trailing behind.

We had second lunch on Yr Aran’s sheltered eastern face, which provided a lovely view of Snowdon under a newly blue sky scattered with pale clouds. We all watched amusedly while Graeme instigated a conversation between a phone recording of a raven and a real raven, which had materialised at the rustle of a bag of jelly babies. Once the croaking had concluded we continued up and over the mountain’s symmetrical top, where I managed to miss the remains of an RAF helicopter that caught fire after an emergency landing a few years ago. Graeme then led us down the western side, a long, grassy ridge, stopping at intervals to crush my peat bog lecture with interactive dissections of fox poo and/or owl pellets, one of which contained the unmistakeable shell of a species we’d learnt to identify while on the Nantlle Ridge hike – the violet ground beetle, which glinted in the afternoon sun.

To camp

Having navigated only a short leg, Lou gave me the cruel job of getting us to a specific, indistinct point on the northwestern slope of Yr Aran. In the absence of features and paths I could only use a bearing, pacing and contours, so was relatively satisfied to be only a few metres out on arrival. After a bit more bogtrotting we rejoined a path and returned to the slate-strewn col, where old spoil heaps, walls and ruins lay vast and still in the hazy, waning light, looking serene and wistful in their abandonment.

We crossed the col and dipped back down the other side, then followed Mohan along a vague path along the base of Snowdon’s south ridge for about a kilometre. We stopped at a flattish grassy area nestled between the hillsides of Cwm Tregalan, which towered above our camp spot on three sides, and busied ourselves by erecting tents, offloading sleeping bags and preparing dinner. Jack joined me while I munched boil in a bag chicken and rice, gave me half his hot chocolate and was unshaken by everyone’s relentless teasing: by sharing Connie’s tent and my jetboil, he’d achieved what was deemed a “lightweight hike” and concluded, quite rightly I suppose, that he’d simply “taken initiative”.

Night nav

Our preparations for a night navigation exercise were interrupted by the arrival of a poorly-looking lamb, which stood very close to Lou’s tent, swaying slightly, and seemed quite unaware of its surroundings. It looked a little forlorn but otherwise happy enough, but it clearly wasn’t well, so Lou texted a local farmer to arrange for its collection. Once this minor drama had been seen to we partnered up and set off in the dark, taking it in turns to lead short but time-consuming legs across the rugged terrain.

Jack and Darren led the first leg downhill, across a stream and to a small stone sheepfold, while the rest of us followed by taking a bearing off the leaders each time they changed direction and counting paces. This was slow and difficult on the rough ground, but it was quite exciting hiking in pitch dark and we were thankful for the lack of wind and meaningful rain (drizzle doesn’t count in Wales). Connie and I took over, took a bearing to a stream then handrailed it up a steep bank, helpfully advising the others not to fall in. We reached our destination – a featureless point on a small hill, denoted by the curve of a contour – using a bearing and pacing, and remarked how different the landscape seemed in the dark. Using contours as visual features was almost useless, as each tiny mound seemed extremely large without the context of its surroundings. This was the key thing I took away from the exercise – focus on bearings and pacing.

Mohan and Graeme led the final leg across undulating mounds and we bumped into the other group, a cluster of headtorches and cheery voices, just before returning to camp. I scouted round for the lamb but it was nowhere to be seen, so – hoping that the farmer would come and look for it early in the morning – we inspected each others’ tents. I admired Darren’s two porches, while he described mine as “palatial”, and I inwardly added “smaller tent” to my shopping list before heading to bed. I certainly do not need a new tent.

Saturday: Return, River Crossings, Debrief

After a good night’s sleep (the rain only woke me once) we were all breakfasted, packed and ready to leave by 8. Gold-lined clouds sat low above the distant hill that spanned the V of our valley as the sun crept above the horizon, making for a spectacular start to our final day. We hiked down the rugged slope for a kilometre, commenting on how near the features from the night nav seemed in daylight, and I quizzed Graeme on the merits of sphagnum moss while Connie recited the lichens she’d learnt.

Back on the Watkin path, the river rushed vigorously alongside us and we passed a small weir which Lou explained forms part of a local hydroelectric scheme (I think these should be widely endorsed). Lou then diverted the conversation back to the ML syllabus and we discussed campcraft, which encompasses various considerations around taking a group on a multi-day expedition such as hygiene, safety, cooking, equipment and environmental impact. Then, just as I was reading an information board about the Watkin Path being the first official footpath in Britain, Lou’s friend the farmer appeared on a quad bike on his way up to search for our poorly lamb, to everyone’s relief. He later reported that it had been found and collected.

By the time we descended into the pretty broadleaf wood we’d passed the previous day, people had started up Snowdon in droves and I was glad for the relatively quiet experience we’d had up Yr Aran. We emerged onto the Nantgwynant Valley road and saw that the laybys we’d parked in were now full, being a dry Saturday morning. With the expedition over, we crossed the road and commenced our final practical exercise of the week – river crossings.

River crossings and emergencies

We found the other group knee-deep in the wide, relatively shallow Afon Glaslyn and made our preparations to get wet. I thought I’d experiment by tying a spare bootlace tight around the top of my waterproof socks, outside my waterproof trousers, to see if my feet stayed dry (they did not). As Glyn led the other group across the river in a loud, military fashion, Lou talked us through how to deal with emergencies in the mountains, useful phone apps/services and demonstrated how to evacuate casualties using firstly a group shelter, then a jacket and hiking poles. After parading each other around on makeshift stretchers, we practised several methods of crossing rivers in a group – I’ll attempt to summarise what we learnt:

  • Choose the safest looking place to cross, taking into account the depth and speed of flow
  • Face upstream, maintain a wide, stable stance and walk sideways like a crab
  • Straight line: the group crosses together in a line facing upstream, one behind the other, holding on to each others’ shoulders/rucksacks. The leading person creates an eddy that protects the others from the brunt of the flow
  • Wedge: the strongest person forms the apex of a wedge and the others form a triangle behind them, all holding onto each other. The smallest/weakest people at the back are protected by an eddy and the group moves sideways together
  • Chain: the group spans the width of the river, holding on to each others arms/bags, and the last person moves from one end of the chain to the other by passing behind the line of people, taking it in turns to move one at a time until the chain reaches the opposite bank

With that done, we wobbled and giggled our way out of the water and back to the cars, wet to the knees, and drove in a loose convoy to Llanberis via the winding Nantgwynant valley road and the ever-scenic Llanberis Pass. I parked by Llyn Padarn and joined some of the others for a coffee and sausage roll in a little café, then we made our way to the previously visited Y Festri village hall.

Conclusion

The final session covered how to record Quality Mountain Days (40 of which are required to pass the assessment) on the online database, QMD requirements, how to navigate the training portal and useful learning resources. Lou gave us feedback and we all parted, slowly and reluctantly, with many promises to meet up for catch ups and QMDs in the near future. Llanberis’s colourful high street seemed uncharacteristically gloomy on leaving Y Festri and I set off on my drive home at 2:30pm, keenly feeling the quiet dullness of unaccustomed solitude after the constant camaraderie of the course.

To conclude, I had an incredibly enjoyable and memorable week making new friends and learning an abundance of new skills. Our group became quite tight in just a few days and we remain in contact – in November I met some of the others in the Brecon Beacons for a lovely hike, and the group chat still pops up fairly regularly. Having already spent a fair amount of time in the mountains, I was amazed at the depth of the syllabus, the variety of useful skills I learnt, and the knowledge imparted by the course instructors – for example, I never expected to come away able to identify an arsenal of plants, mosses and lichens. I plan to book the assessment within the next year or so, but in the meantime I’ll be off to the mountains again – now (hopefully) with corresponding competence and confidence!

Mountain Leader Training: Part 1 of 2

1 Comment

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.

Photo from the end of the week, hence the hastily abandoned beds!
View from the kitchen

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.

There’s an obelisk up there somewhere
Craig Yr Ogof

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.

Llyn y Dywarchen, with Snowdon on the right

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.

The scrambley bit ahead
The group holding Jack up

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.

Coming back along the narrow bit

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.

Sedges have edges
Going into Beddgelert Forest

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.

RIP Pete’s Eats

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.

Apologies to Connie & Darren…

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.

The drying room, pushed to its limits
Just missing Chris & Alice!

Scotland, Feb ’22: The Cobbler

Leave a comment

Monday 14 February

We woke in Glencoe, happy to be in my favourite place but painfully conscious that we only had one day left in Scotland. The last thing on our to do list was hike up the Cobbler, an iconic small mountain in the Trossachs range near Loch Lomond. We had poached eggs on toast and drove out of dramatic Glencoe one last time – I’ve probably over-described it in previous posts so I’ll spare the gushing detail of how beautiful it is. We headed south across marshy Rannoch Moor, where the vast, sprawling wilderness was accentuated by the rugged, rolling mountains all around.

The drive down to Loch Lomond was very scenic and I saw my much-anticipated red squirrel, although sadly it was flat as a pancake in the middle of the road. We drove along the long, winding edge of the loch and turned off towards Arrochar, a village which sits at the head of unimaginatively but accurately named Loch Long. We parked in the lochside car park and booted up, leaving the van about 12.30pm.

The first section took us on a long, steady hike up a switchback path that climbs above Loch Long and through thick birch and evergreen forest, then pops out onto open, undulating moorland covered in golden grass, brown heather and the large, grey, randomly strewn Narnain boulders. The distinctive form of the Cobbler appeared as we emerged from the trees, its dark, gnarled rocks distorting the horizon and standing in stark contrast against the pale, cloudy sky and patchy white snow.

The Cobbler, otherwise known as Ben Arthur, is so called because of the distinctive, tall, dark lump of rock that sits on the central summit of the hilly mass, which is supposed to look like a cobbler bending over at work when viewed from the east – the way we were approaching. Personally I’m not sure I see it, but it certainly is a peculiar shape.

With that iconic figure straight ahead of us, the steady hike up the hillside moor was stunning, with far-reaching views across the rolling, golden peaks of the Arrochar Alps rising all around us. We passed vast boulders and followed the gently flowing Coire a Bhalachain river for about a mile to the base of the imposing, obscure obtrusion, where snow started to appear on the ground in patches. Here we took a right fork to approach the summit from the obvious path to the north. The alternative option was a shorter but steeper route that looks on a map like it goes west up a wide gully, which looked snowy – we hadn’t taken ice axes so didn’t fancy climbing, nor ending up in an avalanche.

The path continued gradually up and northwest along the river for another kilometre to the small Lochan a Chlaidheimh, which sits in the col between the Cobbler and neighbouring Beinn Narnain. Suddenly exposed to the westerly wind, able to see the deep, rolling valleys over the back of the mountain, and stood just below a thick grey curtain of clag, the place took on a whole new character – wilder, more ominous and more exciting.

We took a left fork at the col and began the steeper climb up stone “steps”, now heading south up the mountain’s north face. The snow thickened and spread as we climbed up, and the icy rocks became quite awkward to move across; luckily sensible Ryan had brought his hiking poles. Once we’d gained some height the path levelled into a narrow, slippery traverse below the lumpy North Peak, which was a little sketchy but afforded good views over the undulating brown valley below (the summits of Beinn Luibhean and Beinn Ime had been absorbed by cloud) and the Cobbler’s snow-covered northwest side, which rolled down in a vast white mass that was quite different to the iconic grey cliffs on the sheer eastern face.

We reached this white mass and made our way up, which was difficult given the steep gradient and slipperiness of the compacted snow and the unpredictable sizes, shapes and locations of the rocks hidden underneath. The snowy summit (884m) was about a kilometre on from the Lochan where we’d branched left, and we were relieved to gain it after the awkward climb. Once up there I was keen to “thread the needle”, a famous move which involves climbing through a hole in the highest pinnacle onto an exposed ledge on the sheer east face, then scrambling up to stand on the narrow rocky peak. I went partly through the hole but the conditions were way too windy and icy, so I decided against it – Ryan had already had kittens.

Pleased to have reached the top but slightly amused and exasperated to once again achieve a summit with extensive views of the inside of a cloud, we took a few photos and headed back down the way we came. It was just as awkward as the way up, if not more so, and we were relieved when we returned to the Lochan and the easier path back across the golden moor.

The walk back from there was lovely, with excellent views over the rugged hills all around. For some bizarre, probably food-related reason, Ryan, who hates running, decided to start jogging back, which we did for a few hundred metres before I became concerned about a potential shin splint (an old injury) and becoming unnecessarily sweaty. We crossed the boulder-strewn moor, looking back wistfully at the wild hills, entered the forest and took the switchback path back down to the car park.

We got back to the van about 16:30, de-kitted and drove south along the bank of stunning Loch Lomond to the town of Balloch, where we treated ourselves to a mayo chicken from McDonalds and looked for a half-decent overnight spot. Having not found anywhere, I used the Park4nite app and spotted a perfect little pull-in between Dumbarton and Helensburgh on the bank of the wide, tidal River Clyde, a 20 minute drive west. It was on a very quiet road by a sandy beach, which was a lovely, bird-rich nature reserve, and as the day faded it overlooked the twinkling lights of Greenock on the far side of the river.

I cooked vegan mince stew for dinner with bulgur wheat and veg, and to mark Valentine’s Day we lit a candle – a bit extravagant, I know. We spent a long time watching the lights of Greenock dance on the water, looking up at a clear, starry, unusually bright sky, listening to the strange wading birds, and reflecting on our lovely trip. We went to bed reluctantly, not wanting our time in Scotland to end and half-considering just living wild.

And just like that, it was over. To conclude the trip, the drive home the next day was long and uneventful – we left about 9.30am and got back to the New Forest about 6pm. As usual, I think I left my heart in Scotland. Must go back soon.

Scotland, Feb ’22: Hiking Buachaille Etive Mor

Leave a comment

Sunday 13 February

This was to be our biggest mountain day of the trip. Buachaille Etive Mor is Britain’s most photographed mountain due to its perfect triangular form and solitary position between the heads of Glencoe and Glen Etive. It stands tall over wild Rannoch Moor, and although it looks like an archetypal mountain when approached from the east, it’s actually an undulating ridge with four separate summit peaks rising along its 5-mile length, two of which are Munros.

We’d hoped that the conditions would be favourable enough to ice climb up that triangular eastern face, but the wind and avalanche forecasts didn’t look too good so we decided to “hike” up the steep north face. I got up at 6am, had porridge and coffee and got ready, and eventually managed to rouse the morning-phobic Ryan. We drove the short distance up the Glen Etive road to rejoin the Glencoe road and parked in a roadside car park due north of the Buachaille.

Waiting for the snail to get out his shell

We set off south at 8am, just as the morning light crept in. We crossed a footbridge over the river Coupall and passed the iconic white Lagangarbh hut, a tiny cottage set low against the dramatic mountain backdrop that the Scottish Mountaineering Club use as accommodation. We followed the footpath south across heathery moorland, which rose gradually towards the base of the mountain. We reached a rushing stream that flowed down to the Coupall from Coire na Tuilach, the corrie whose back wall we would be climbing, and started the ascent up its wet, rocky bank.

It was a steep hike up the little river, and as is so commonly the case, the path disappeared about halfway up. We hopped between rocks as snow started to appear, thickened, and eventually covered the ground. After what felt like a long time the river disappeared and we reached the bottom of a very steep snow slope at the back of the corrie. Ice axes in hand, we hacked our way up through the knee-deep, soft, yielding neve, which felt so solid that we decided there was no need for crampons or ropes.

It was dramatically steep and very exciting, like nothing we’d ever done before. At the top the gradient quickly levelled out and we pulled over the edge onto the foggy ridge just after 10am, exhilarated by the climb and eager to see what was next. There was a marked difference in temperature once we were no longer sheltered by the corrie walls, so we pulled on coats and quickly headed east towards the summit of Stob Dearg, the Buachaille’s highest and most easterly peak – the top of that perfect triangle.

The cloud hung in a low, flat curtain just above our heads, and as we climbed it swallowed us up. We eventually reached the summit just before 11, having tramped up a kilometre of awkward, bleak terrain that varied only between thick snow and uneven rocks, having seen none of the surrounding landscape – which we knew would have been breath-taking – due to the increasingly damp clag. Pleased to have summited but slightly underwhelmed by the cloudy Stob Dearg, we headed back (depressingly) the same way. We passed a small group following our tracks to the top and agreed that it was nice to have been the first up the peak that day.

We passed our own footprints coming from Coire na Tulaich and continued southwest along the claggy ridge towards Stob na Doire, which was about a mile away. I was furious at myself for breaking my own rule – don’t let a down jacket get wet – as I’d underestimated the light snow and done just that, so I pulled on a waterproof and accepted that I deserved any damp-related suffering that would doubtless ensue. The most interesting things we saw (snow, rock and clag had all ceased to be interesting) were animal prints – most likely fox, ptarmigan or grouse and excitingly, given the immense size of them, golden eagle. Eager not to fall off the edge of the ridge, we walked on a bearing across flattish snow in near white-out conditions – the only distinction between the ground and the sky was the slight grey tinge of the all-consuming cloud.

The gradient increased steadily as we approached Stob na Doire, then steeply, requiring some awkward clambering over large rocks and careful guesswork as to whether each footstep into the snow would meet solid ground or a gap between boulders. This section seemed to last forever, and I distinctly remember noting that just then I wasn’t having a particularly enjoyable day. Time seemed a distant concept, and we were relieved when we suddenly appeared at the summit at 12.10pm.

We hurried down the peak’s long, steep, rocky southwest face into a col between Stob na Doire and Stob Coire Altruim. Pleased to feel like we had finally made some ground and noticing that the clag was just starting to thin a little in places, we crossed the col, keeping a safe distance from the obvious cornice that had formed over the ridge’s north side. The short climb to the third summit was over nice, predictable snow, which was much more enjoyable than the uneven rocks going up Stob na Doire. We reached the top at 1.10pm.

There was less elevation difference between Stob Coire Altruim and Stob na Broige, so the kilometre between the two summits felt fairly relaxed after our Stob na Doire ordeal. Here the rocky, snowy ridge narrowed significantly in the middle, making for quite an exciting and aesthetically pleasing traverse between the peaks, and the cloud occasionally lifted slightly to afford us dramatic views over the stunning, bleak glens a long way below. We reached the small, circular stone shelter at the summit of Stob na Broige at 1.30pm, then retraced our steps back to Stob Coire Altruim and the col.

The path back started somewhere in this col but it wasn’t obvious where, so avoiding the cornices we took the most agreeable-looking way down. We scrambled down into a huge, sheltered bowl and decided it was time for some food, so we stopped to share a hot flask of Ryan’s special spicy noodle-couscous mix, the perfect winter mountain snack. Feeling significantly perked up, we continued north down the steep snow slope, found a lone set of footprints and what looked like the path, and eventually descended to rockier, grassier ground.

From here the way down was just as awkward for a while, necessitating the use of ice axes for stability as we climbed down wet slabs. We were glad to have descended below the cloud line, which meant that we finally had clear views over the dramatic, immensely proportioned golden-brown glen. We were careful to keep left of the steep river that flowed white next to us, not fancying a difficult crossing or a long tramp across boggy ground at the bottom.

The slope levelled as we reached the wide valley base, and the obvious, narrow path arced right across undulating grassy, mossy, heathery ground, following the white River Coupall northeast. We walked for about 2km through the valley, feeling very small between the hulking golden masses of Buachaille Etive Beag and Buachaille Etive Mor. At one point the path ran along a narrow ridge with a sheer 6m drop-off either side, making for an interesting and varied walk back to the van, and I was excited to spot a herd of well-camoflagued red deer munching away low down on the slopes to our right. Eventually we reached the main road and walked along it for a fairly unenjoyable kilometre, keeping as far out of the way of the whizzing traffic as possible.

We got back to the van about 4pm, just before the daylight began to ebb away. Delighted with our successful big mountain day, we drove back through the Pass of Glencoe to the Co-op at Ballachulish, grabbed some snacks and went back to the Signal Rock car park (see post from our previous trip for more on Signal Rock) in the Glencoe pass – I just can’t get enough of the place. The car park is owned by the National Trust for Scotland and quite refreshingly, they allow respectful overnight camping. Surrounded by trees and tucked into a corner, we sorted out some kit, then walked a short distance along a well-pathed forest track to the Clachaig Inn for a celebratory pint.

The pub was modern and cosy, with some interesting mountain art and old ice climbing gear. I assume they do well from just our car park, let alone the actual hotel guests. We enjoyed a cold cider, managed to resist the food, and walked back to the van through the dark trees for a tasty dinner of tortellini in tomato sauce with leftover veg. Safe to say we slept well that night.

March 2022: Snowdonia Group Trip – Idwal Slabs, Tryfan, Moel Siabod & Coed y Brenin

2 Comments

Friday 25 March

We were raring to go for a social weekend in North Wales. My old friends Dave and Charley had planned a group trip up with the intention of climbing Tryfan and celebrating Dave’s birthday way back in 2020, which – like most other things in 2020 – was thwarted by covid. Excited by the prospect of a long overdue reunion and double excited by the prospect of a long overdue reunion in the mountains, we were up and on the road by 04:15.

We collected Lee on our way up, another old friend and (as we soon found out) an excellent travelling companion totally unphased by most things, including waking up at silly o’clock to set off on random activities. We had a clear run of traffic and crossed the border by 9am. Concrete and tarmac turned into steep, forested, river-bellied valleys, and we stopped at picturesque Betws-y-Coed (a lovely little town whose praises I’ve sung previously) for a snack and a leg stretch.

From “Betsy” we drove along the familiar A5 for 20 minutes, already feeling absorbed by the thick forests and rugged valley sides that tower over the sweeping road. The sky was clear and the sun was already warm when we reached the roadside car park opposite vast, dark Llyn Ogwen, backed by the hulking mass of yellow-green Pen Yr Ole Wen (which is quite high on my to do list). We threw on our already-packed rucksacks, walked along the road to Ogwen Cottage and went through the gateway to the Glyderau mountain range.

Climbing at Idwal Slabs

The path up to Llyn Idwal is well-walked and well kept, and we were pleased to pass a big school group enjoying the sunny outdoors. The unmistakeable, stegosaurus-scale form of dark Tryfan dominated the view to our left and the high ridge of Glyder Fach and Glyder Fawr loomed ahead, curving round via the wide, black crack of Devil’s Kitchen to the equally intimidating Y Garn and Foel Goch on the right. The dark, high lake sat thus in a huge, rocky, ancient bowl overlooking the stunning Ogwen Valley. I’ve previously written about this area in more detail – see here for more of that kind of waffle.

Idwal slab is a huge rock face that lies at the head of Llyn Idwal and forms part of the south face of the towering Glyder Fach/Fawr ridge. Its sloping angle, grippy rock and solid cracks makes for good, low grade climbing, so as well as wanting to try it ourselves we thought it’d be good for Lee, who hadn’t really climbed before. We planned to do the classic route “Tennis Shoe” (HS 4b) but there were climbers already on it, so we opted for the easier “The Ordinary Route” (Diff), a “classic” that was recorded as a route way back in 1897.

We roped up and Ryan led the first pitch up a wide, easy crack. Lee followed and I cleaned the gear. Having an extra person was nice because the belayer always had someone to talk to, and I was amazed at how quickly and easily Lee picked it up – I’d been a little worried that a big multi-pitch trad route might be a bit ambitious for a new climber, but I’ve never known anyone so unfazed. Ryan and I alternated leading the route and as we climbed higher, the view of Llyn Idwal and the Ogwen Valley became increasingly impressive and the lake seemed to turn from deep black to a cool blue that contrasted with the bright, sandy yellow of the mountain grass. I could drawl on about the scenery and the captivating wilderness for a long time, but I’ll use some photos instead:

The climbing was straightforward all the way up, with the occasional slightly spicier move, and we didn’t bother changing our approach shoes for climbing shoes. It would have been quite a comfortable free solo until reaching the last couple of pitches and looking down the steep face. The gear placements were generally good (sometimes too good – I spent a good few minutes retrieving one nut) with the occasional weird bare bit where the rock seemed to change, and my last belay point was slightly dubious – I’d got to the end of our 40m rope and ended up pinning myself into an outward-facing seat by slings tightly attached to a nut and a horn either side of me. It was interesting having a third person because we had to choose belay points with space for him to sit or lean, which is something I don’t usually think about.

From the last belay point we scrambled left across less steep but rocky, slightly muddy terrain towards the misleadingly named “walk off”, which took a while to find thanks to the unhelpful description in our Rockfax guide. Eventually we spotted a couple of arrows etched into big rocks and I’m glad we did, as we wouldn’t otherwise have guessed that the way they pointed constituted a “walk”. Fortunately Lee was unfazed once again and we downclimbed a short, steep, rocky scramble that the book suggests is often abseiled. Doing so with a prawn sandwich in one hand probably wasn’t my smartest move, but I’d stopped at the top to put the book back in my bag and came across the irresistible, handy snack.

We reached the bottom unscathed and walked down the sloping bank to rejoin the path alongside Llyn Idwal. We traipsed back to the car the way we came, down the hill that climbs up to Idwal (a glacial “hanging lake” set quite high up), past Ogwen Cottage and a short way along the A5, tempted by a dip in the cool, clear water of Llyn Ogwen and once again blown away by the stunning views and the unbelievably lovely March weather.

A Yaris tour along the North Coast

We left the car park to go and find the holiday cottage via a supermarket. It was six and two threes whether we went back the way we came through Betwys-y-Coed or carried along the A5 and followed the coast around, so we opted for some new scenery and went north west along the valley to the greyish town of Bethesda, then around the top of the national park via the North Wales Expressway, a smooth, wide road that runs along the north coast with the calm, blue sea on one side and hills rising hazily on the other. It felt like we were in a foreign country or a car advert, although poor, peeling Scabbers the Yaris would never make it into one of those.

We stopped at an Asda in Conwy, although it had little right to call itself an Asda – it was barely bigger than a Spar. I was more stressed out by the prospect of shopping than I had been halfway up the rock face, so we collected various fajita ingredients and assorted alcoholic refreshments and scarpered. We found the holiday place about 20 minutes south of Conwy in the middle of nowhere (where nowhere is an agricultural paradise of grassy hills, sprawling fields and long hedgerows), reached via some remarkably steep, narrow, twisty, bumpy country roads.

The House and the Reunion

We rolled onto the wide gravel drive and realised that Charley, the friend who planned the trip, had spoilt us all. We were looking at a beautiful, long, stone barn conversion with a lovely wooden extension and a huge porch. It fronted onto a slate-pebbled yard with lovely countryside views, and had its own open barn containing a hot tub, ping pong table and gas barbecue. It had four double rooms with a shower each, two living areas, a large central kitchen, a fancy staircase, lovely stone floors and a curious way of feeling both cosy and spacious. We saved the master bedroom (complete with balcony and en-suite fit for royalty) for Dave and Charley, Lee took one of the upstairs doubles and Ryan and I had the downstairs double, for alcohol and staircase-related safety reasons on my part.

The three of us unpacked the car and relaxed on comfy sofas until the others arrived. Dave, Charley and Cooper the dalmatian turned up after about an hour, Ryan and I cooked fajitas and we agreed not to drink too much that night – we had to climb Tryfan tomorrow, and it’d be better to save ourselves for Saturday night. Then Matt turned up.

He was earlier than expected and having not seen each other for such a long time (Ryan excepted, who met everyone that day), we must have gotten overexcited because everything took a turn for the worse. Drinks flowed (everywhere) as we caught up with each other, and – although my memory is hazy at best, utterly blank at worst – I think it’s probably a good thing we had the hot tub to contain us.

Saturday 26 March

I woke at 5am on a sofa, which is strange considering Ryan had put me to bed. I woke again about 8am thanks to the delightful sound (which I’ve missed for so long) of Matt cleaning the kitchen. I stood up, fell over for no reason, woke and whinged to Ryan about my bleeding knee, wandered out to say hello to Matt and Dave, and promptly returned to bed. I woke more successfully after about an hour and went to try and make myself useful, although the boys had already removed all traces of Friday night. Someone cooked bacon and somehow we were all in Dave’s car around midday.

The drive to Tryfan was harrowing. There was no avoiding the twisty country roads from the house, but after being on the main road for a while sat nav took us off and along the Gwydyr forest track instead of through Betws-y. It was a sorry excuse for a road, especially in a car full of six hungover people. I’m quite sure it’s the twistiest, bumpiest, narrowest, steepest, roughest road in the whole world, and Charley – who was the worst of all of us – looked like she’d perish at any minute. After about four calendar years we reached the Ogwen Valley and were relieved beyond words to bail out of the car.

Tryfan

Sadly poor Charley was a write-off. She made the sensible (if inevitable) decision that she’d consumed far too much gin to be on a mountain, so the five of us left her in the roadside car park with a window cracked open and trudged off towards the steep north ridge of Tryfan.

The first section involved a lot of rock-hopping and scrambling, and our senses began to clear. The summit is barely a kilometre from the car park as the crow flies and the path follows a fairly straight line, but over 600m of ascent meant that the “walk” was very steep and hands-on, requiring very little progress “across” and a lot of progress “up”. Fortunately there’s no hangover cure like cool mountain air and an imminent risk of death, so we were in good spirits before long. We followed the vague path, guessing the way up every time it stopped at bare rock and taking enough breaks to fully appreciate the incredible views up and down the long, pale golden Ogwen Valley, with dark Llyn Ogwen in its belly, the rugged curve of Y Garn and Foel Goch at its head and lofty Pen yr Ole Wen forming the opposite ridge. We couldn’t have hoped for better weather – the clear skies afforded the best views I’ve ever seen of the Glyderau and Carneddau mountain ranges and the gentle breeze kept us cool.

We stopped at the self-explanatory “cannon” for an obligatory photo, rolled eyes at the false summit and scrambled up the steepening rocks, which became a little exposed on the east side. We hauled ourselves up an extremely photogenic gully, traversed some large gaps and discovered a second cannon, which we decided was even better than the first in that the drop off the edge was much more dangerous, therefore much more irresistible. We decided that standing on it ourselves was fine, but watching the others do the same was extremely nerve-wracking as the faller wouldn’t really have to deal with the catastrophe. Once Matt – probably the most giraffe-like of all of us, and the last one to go up – made his way down from that rock, we all breathed a sigh of relief.

From there it was a fairly short but awkward way along and up, and at the top Adam and Eve appeared like effigies on the rocky summit plateau. Suddenly the view was panoramic and we were delighted, not in the least bit hungover. We did the jump between them to gain the “freedom of Tryfan” (again, watching was much worse than doing, and both were much more comfortable than last time Ryan and I did it in climbing gear and claggy weather), fed off Lee’s magic rucksack full of miscellaneous confectionary, debated why there were eggshells on the ground until deciding that hard boiled eggs are actually an excellent mountain snack, and walked the rocky but less steep and more sociable way down the summit’s sunnier south west face, enjoying the new views over to the Glyder ridge, Y Gribin and the lovely tarn of Llyn Bochlwyd.

The rocky terrain became decidedly boggy and we did our best to avoid the worst bits (especially the deep, sudden, ankle-sized holes) until we reached the well-kept path that goes from Ogwen/Idwal Cottage up to that high lake. We amused each other, notably with stories of snakes, pheasants and bits of badger-related law (thanks Dave), and felt fully recovered from Friday. Eventually the descent levelled out and the walk to Ogwen Cottage was very pleasant, except when – to Matt and Lee’s delight – a passing dog kicked a lump of mud in my hair just as I crouched to examine some frogspawn.

Return

We reached the bottom of the path, grabbed some snacks from the kiosk at the little visitor centre and made our way back along the A5 to Charley, not sure what condition we’d find her in. Luckily sleep had revived her, but the 40 minute drive to a big Tesco near-ish the house was enough to return the rest of us to our sluggish, hungover state, and once again I didn’t enjoy the shop one bit.

Back at the house Dave and Charley cooked lasagne and we spent the evening in a more acceptable way than the previous night, although it did feature the most hectic game of beer/ping pong I’ve ever played (involving six people, five bats, a washing up bowl and ball-repellent cups) and another, more chilled dip in the hot tub.

Sunday 27 March

Moel Siabod

After a lie in and breakfast rolls, we set off about midday for Moel Siabod, a mountain known as a lovely hiking destination that has been on my list for a long time. Once again we drove into the A5 valley through Betws-y, this time parking at the Tyn y Coed pub. We walked a short way along the road, then branched off up a very steep track (a substantial warm up) which eventually brought us to a sheep-spangled moorland covered in high yellow grass. The majestic, sweeping slopes of the mountain lay ahead of us and we enjoyed a near-panoramic view over rugged, rolling peaks, which were broken up into a golden-brown-grey-green patchwork of rock, grass, heather and forest.

Thankfully the path was clear and the gradient eased, so we talked our way up to the base of Moel Siabod’s rocky northeast ridge. A large, dark tarn appeared on our left as the land rose above us on our right, and we continued on feeling a bit fellowship-of-the-ring like until we reached some ruined quarry buildings and a small, deep-looking, almost perfectly round tarn with a sheer back wall. We threw a few stones in (we’re only human) before everyone else’s feeble tosses were put to shame by Lee’s rocket launcher arm, and we carried on along the base of Moel Siabod’s long, steep southeast face through grassy, rocky, heathery terrain until we came to another, larger tarn, Llyn y Foel, the hazy blue-peaked landscape opened up in front of us, and the path disappeared.

After some careful bog avoidance we stopped at the base of the Daear Ddu ridge for a snack, then began the technical part of the ascent. We’d planned to go straight up via Daear Ddu, a grade 1 scramble, but decided at the bottom it’d be safer for us all (especially Cooper) to follow what looked like the more trodden path to the left, which was effectively a scramble up a steep boulderfield away from the ridge’s sheer drop. It was awkward in places, particularly with a slightly nervous dalmatian who wasn’t used to hopping from rock to rock across big, dark gaps, but luckily he was very agile and made it up with some persuasion.

After what felt like a long time we pulled up over the edge of the mountain’s rocky south face onto the summit plateau, which was covered in large lumps of scree and dry, hardy grass. Cooper, who was relieved to be back on solid ground, had the cheek to bound off ahead as if he’d just finished the warm up while the rest of us tramped up to the trig point. Dave in particular did a lot of tramping, as I’d spent a portion of the ascent sneaking rocks into his bag (birthday beats are so 2009), which he only discovered right at the summit. He took it like a champ, and we all gawped at the now fully panoramic view until chilled by the breeze, pointing out the distinctive shapes of Tryfan and Snowdon and the uncountable surrounding peaks, which ranged in colour from hazy grey-blue to golden-yellow to brown and dark green.

The way down was more sociable, involving a walk across to the other side of the plateau, a little bit more scrambling and Cooper-herding across rocks, then joining a clear path through rugged grassland that signified the end of the most awkward terrain. As we made our way down Siabod’s less-steep northwest face the huge, dark blue-lilac forms of the Glyderau mountain range dominated our view to the left and the golden-green Dyffryn Mymbyr valley stretched out ahead of us with its random undulations, which were sometimes rocky, sometimes heathery and sometimes foresty.

We reached an evergreen forest after a long, straight “down” section and only one snack/admire-the-view break. It had that surreal, tranquil quality only found the wildest, remotest woods. Trees, birds, shrubs, spring flowers, mosses, even the stream – everything seemed to thrive in a quiet, old, unimposing way. We walked along the forest track until we reached the bottom of the hill, where the Afon Llugwy flowed white over the fascinating rock formations it had carved. We crossed at an old bridge and walked a short distance along the road back to the cars.

Chinese n Chill

The bar at Tyn y Coed was closed but we made up for it with a drink at Y Stabblau pub in Betws-y-Coed, where we’d eaten after completing the Three Peaks Challenge three years ago. Someone had planted the Chinese takeaway seed which meant the matter was not open for negotiation as we all fancied it so much, so we went back to the house, showered and regrouped in the big kitchen. After some faff trying to find a fairly nearby takeaway that was open and answering the phone, we sent Dave and Ryan off to collect the treasure after what felt like a 10-year wait. That Chinese tasted so good.

Before we ate Charley broke the wonderful news that she’d managed to get the following morning off work, so they could stay the night rather than driving back. We had a lovely evening playing ring of fire and cards against humanity (which was particularly memorable thanks to Matt’s unrepeatable answer to the “you can’t put *blank* inside *blank*” card), talking in the kitchen for ages and polishing off an unholy amount of leftover takeaway. Once again I stumbled into bed, but thankfully this time I managed to stay there all night.

Monday 28 March

Dave and Charley left early and again Matt took the lead on cleaning up the house. We had breakfast, packed up, said bye to Matt and left at 10am. Lee, Ryan and I wanted to make the most of the day without getting home too late, so we headed through the heart of the national park to Coed y Brenin forest park and set off on the 4-mile Gain Waterfall hiking trail (but not before a quick visit to the mountain bike shop and an avowal to come back for those trails another time, having only ridden the blue Minotaur trail previously).

Gain Waterfall trail

It was a lovely, well-marked route along a gravel path that took us through high, fragrant pines, across a shrubby, heathery plain overlooking the distinctive Rhinog mountain range, down a twisty valley and along the fairytale-like Afon Gain and Afon Mawddach rivers. We passed the ruins of an old gold mine and some stunning, high waterfalls which tumbled and rushed into copper-coloured plunge pools. Like the woods on the way down from Moel Siabod it was almost absurdly tranquil and timeless, and neither a dinosaur, a medieval vagabond nor a Victorian gold panner would have looked out of place in the old forest.

Home

After a sandwich and a drink in the visitor centre, we set off home. We talked for the full four or five hours, only stopping once in a pretty town with a funny hybrid petrol station/co-op/garden centre place to get petrol and cannonball-sized scotch eggs, and the sunny drive back through the Welsh/English countryside was way better than the motorway.

All in all a top weekend with top weather, top scenery, top accommodation and top people. 10/10 would recommend.

Snowdonia, Sep ’21: Glyder Fach and Glyder Fawr via Bristly Ridge

2 Comments

Wednesday 22 September

Moel Siabod café

We woke in the wild, quiet, slightly damp Dyffryn Mymbyr valley and made the excellent decision to get breakfast down the road at the Moel Siabod café. Ryan had been before but for me it was love at first sight, once we were past the tinny, slightly naff-looking red and green exterior: inside, half the walls were wood panelled and the other half were painted bright yellow, and from all of them hung canvases and frames displaying incredible mountain photography. A huge pile of mountaineering magazines sat invitingly in one corner, stories of epic local feats adorned noticeboards and two counter-mounted maps of Snowdonia took up a considerable amount of space among the homely pine tables.

We ordered breakfast, found a small gallery full of more stunning photos tucked in a side room, picked up a couple of magazines and sat down in a corner by the window under a framed jacket signed by Leo Houlding. At risk of stereotyping I noted that many of the people in there had “the climber look”, usually characterised by bright down jackets and slightly wayward hair (myself very much included). Our breakfast arrived, I stopped gawping around the room, and we ate. The food was lovely and very generous: Ryan’s full English and my smoked salmon and scrambled eggs set us up for the day’s hiking, and we left for the Glyders.

Moel Siabod cafe

The hike begins

After a 10 minute drive up the A5, we parked in the free car park below Tryfan and opposite Llyn Ogwen, waited a few minutes in the hope that the rain would subside, and packed bags for our hike. Having trad climbed up Tryfan a few days before, we decided to approach Bristly Ridge and the Glyders from Ogwen Cottage (the common approach is from Tryfan), which would enable us to enjoy a picturesque walk-in along a quieter path.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was grim when we set off late morning, but it was decidedly grey and damp. We walked along the road to Ogwen Cottage, which was busy with school groups and ramblers, and joined the popular path towards Llyn Idwal. After 200m we branched off left onto a quiet, rocky path and walked for about 1km, a pleasant tramp across grassy heathland which inclined gradually at first, then quite steeply. To our relief, the weather brightened up as we walked.

Undulating slopes rose high in front of us and the vast ridges of Pen yr Ole Wen and Mynydd Perfedd hid their tops in low cloud behind, separated by the V-shaped Nant Ffrancon valley. Llyn Ogwen stretched along the base of Pen yr Ole Wen, and its black, glassy water matched that of Llyn Bochlwyd, the attractive, wild tarn* that we came to after a fairly strenuous climb.

Ryan puffing up the slope with Llyn Ogwen behind

We fall out, and make up

We went slightly wrong here, executing the schoolboy mistake of subconsciously following a couple of hikers we’d caught up with. We realised quite quickly that they’d taken the left fork but we wanted the right one, so we retraced our steps over boggy ground and walked in the right general direction, the path having disappeared in the muddiness. We climbed above Llyn Bochlwyd while arguing about something silly – I think Ryan complained that I always take over, while I complained that if I didn’t we’d never get anywhere – then went slightly wrong again, then righted ourselves again, then traversed a boulderfield, then made up at the base of Bristly Ridge.

It’s a good thing we did, because the Bristly Ridge scramble was something special and getting over our silliness meant that we became willing to take pictures of each other. The route wasn’t clear from the stone wall that runs between Tryfan and Glyder Fach, so – keen to avoid the “normal” path and make sure we found the scrambling route – we kept west of the wall and headed up towards the vertical rock.

Bristly Ridge

Once past the loose boulders, the real climbing started. Bristly Ridge is a grade 1 scramble situated on the north face of Glyder Fach which has good, solid holds but some exposed sections. Most of the climbing involved scrambling up gullies and around slabby corners, and we found it quite exciting – steep, exposed and probably quite scary to anyone not used to climbing, but technically easy and excellent fun. We paused mid-climb to watch a couple of jets whoosh low through the Ogwen and Nant Ffrancon valleys like bullets, filling the air with a thunderous roar – no wonder the rocks were so full of cracks. The sky had turned blue, scattered with fluffy clouds, and the sun illuminated the olive green, rock-strewn landscape, accentuating the wild beauty of the rugged mountains all around.

At the base of Bristly Ridge, looking back towards Tryfan
Overlooking Llyn Bochlwyd

The Glyders

Eventually we emerged onto the Glyder plateau and, finding that we no longer needed our hands, walked along the wide, boulder-strewn ridge towards the summit of Glyder Fach (994m). I’m not sure exactly where that is as there’s nothing to mark it, but looking at a map we must have reached it after about 200m. We found the famous cantilever stone, took the obligatory (cheesy) photos on top and carried on along the grey ridge.

Glyders Fach and Fawr are the two highest peaks in the Glyderau mountain range. They run east-west and once at Glyder Fach, the “path” (there isn’t really one, it’s just a case of heading in the right direction across the scree and boulders) to Glyder Fawr is rocky, loose and relatively flat.  I walked this wide, distinctive ridge one blizzardy, dark January day a few years ago and it was a totally different place – colourless, desolate and hostile. This time the weather allowed us to see for miles over the breathtaking grey-green landscape, appearing in windows between low, drifting clouds, and we could appreciate the strange, jagged, Mordor-esque formations of dark grey rock protruding along the ridge at odd angles from the ground. The best example was Castell y Gwynt, a monstrous alien structure made of many thin, vertical slabs that rose high above the ground in a huge, spiky dragon’s scale shape, as if the rock had been forcibly rejected by the Earth.

We reached Glyder Fawr after about a mile of this and continued west – not entirely intentionally, and to the bemusement of some hardy sheep – to admire the spectacular view of the Llanberis Pass from the Esgair Felen spur. From there, we headed back towards the vague path that drops steeply down the scree field to Llyn y Cwn, a small tarn, half walked, half slipped down, and once near the black water, took the level path that heads north east towards the Devil’s Kitchen.

The Cantilever
Castell y Gwynt
Glyder Fawr
The steep slope down to Llyn y Cwn

Cwm Idwal & Devil’s Kitchen

We crossed a drystone wall and paused to admire Llyn Idwal below us, framed perfectly by the steep sides of Y Garn and the Y Gribin ridge and backed by cloud-topped Pen yr Ole Wen. We descended down the steep, twisty rock steps that took us into the belly of Cwm Idwal with the ominous-looking Devil’s Kitchen on our left, stopping to chat to a couple of small groups on our way, all the while taking in the enormity of this incredible hanging valley**.

The Devil’s Kitchen is a large, dark crack in the rock overlooking Llyn Idwal that separates the two hulking masses of Glyder Fawr and Y Garn. A waterfall flows from the crack and steam often rises out of it, which – according to legend – indicates that the Devil is cooking; that is, while he’s not busy beckoning weary travellers in, never to be seen again. He must have been otherwise occupied when we were there, because the black gap was menacingly still and steamless, as if its inhabitant was lying in wait for such an unsuspecting weary traveller.

After a considerable descent, we took the path on the west side of Llyn Idwal and walked along the mysterious, gently rippling water’s edge, feel very small in the huge, bowl-like cwm. The lake is named after Prince Idwal Foel, a grandson of an ancient Welsh King, who – according to another legend – drowned in the lake. As a result of this tragedy, birds will never fly over the water. This is a shame, given the cwm’s status as a National Nature Reserve.

We walked along the stony beach at the head of the lake, crossed a bridge and headed back along the well-trodden path to Ogwen Cottage. Being only slightly less busy than earlier, we didn’t hang around before shooting back along the A5 to the van.

The Devil’s Kitchen on the left
Devil’s Kitchen (centre)
Llyn Idwal looking over to Pen yr Ole Wen
Llyn Idwal looking back to the Glyders
Mountain “frame” art instalments near Ogwen Cottage
Tryfan

Evening – Plas y Brenin & Gallt y Glyn

We got back about 5.30pm, sorted our stuff and considered our options for dinner. Being the last night we decided to eat out, so we drove back along the Ogwen valley, into the Dyffryn Mymbyr valley and stopped at Plas y Brenin, the National Outdoor Centre. We had a drink at the cosy bar overlooking Llynnau Mymbyr lake, jealous of the several large groups who’d clearly been doing some kind of outdoor training or activity and were more than likely working or staying there. Feeling a little out of place we decided to try a pub in Llanberis, hoping for somewhere with good food and a bit of a buzz, so we drove along the Dyffryn Mymbyr valley and down the Llanberis pass into the town. We had a drink in The Heights but didn’t fancy anything on the menu, so we took heed of our Rockfax climbing guide, which informed us that the nearby Gallt y Glyn pub held “climber’s night” on Wednesdays.

The pub was a cosy hostel/hotel on the edge of the town near Llyn Padarn. On arrival we were disappointed to find that covid restrictions prevented any kind of socialising with other climbers, but we liked the homely atmosphere and were delighted with our food.  For £8 each (plus toppings, which weren’t expensive) I had a custom pizza (prawn, olive, sausage, basil and jalapenos) and a glass of wine, and Ryan had a custom burger with salad and a beer. It was really delicious – up there with the best pizzas I’ve eaten.

Full of lovely food and in good spirits despite our impending last day of holiday, we drove back up the dark Llanberis Pass and parked on a roadside pull-in near Plas y Brenin. We went back in for another drink and sat on a cosy corner sofa, chuckling at a 1950s mountaineering handbook taken from the large bookcase behind us that was full of mountain-themed treasures. The bar was buzzing and very cosy, and when we went along a corridor to find the loos we were distracted by the multitude of fascinating old climbing photos on the walls. It was a large building with a lot going on – reception area, accommodation, training rooms, bar etc – and we decided that we’d love to come back and do some of the training courses.

After a couple of drinks we walked back to the van, slipped into the bed we’d made up earlier in anticipation of the couple of drinks, and slept soundly.

Gallt y Glyn
Plas y Brenin

*Tarn – a small mountain lake formed by a glacier, usually surrounded by steep slopes

**Hanging valley – an elevated valley formed by a glacier with a steep slope joined onto the side of a main, deeper valley

(turns out geography is cool after all)

Snowdonia, Sep ’21: Hiking the Snowdon Horseshoe

1 Comment

Monday 20th September

The Snowdon Horseshoe is a classic hiking/scrambling route which follows the ridges and peaks that run around Snowdon’s east side in a distinctive horseshoe shape. It takes in the perilous knife-edge balancing act of the Crib Goch arete, with its vertigo-inducingly steep drop offs either side, the epic scrambles of Garnedd Ugain and Y Lliwedd, the ever-popular Snowdon summit and on a clear day, some breathtaking panoramic views.

We woke early in our picturesque camping spot in the Dyffryn Mymbyr valley, quickly sorted the van, grabbed our ready-packed bags and headed west along the A4086. Ahead of us, Snowdon and its surrounding peaks were bathed in the golden early morning sun. After a few minutes we passed the Pen-y-Gwryd Hotel and entered the dramatic Llanberis Pass, where the narrow, twisty road snakes between steep, undulating ridges covered in scrubby grass and an absurd amount of slate-grey rock, of which some towers as formidable vertical slab and some blankets the hillsides in large, loose boulderfields. The low drystone walls that line the road look incredibly small in that wild landscape.

We drove past Pen y Pass, the car park and youth hostel where some of the most popular routes up Snowdon begin, and were shocked to see that it now costs £18 to park for 8 hours, £25 for 12 and £40 for 24, and parking must be booked over a day in advance. We carried on down the valley for a couple of miles and stopped at the large park and ride car park in the tiny village of Nant Peris, nestled deep in the Llanberis valley. It’d usually cost £6 to park for the day but the ticket machine wasn’t working, so we chanced it and left a note in the windscreen before kitting up (in a bit of a rush) and hopping on the early morning Sherpa bus back to Pen y Pass.

The Pyg Track

From Pen y Pass, we set off west along the Pyg track and plodded on for about a mile. The terrain was rocky and moderately steep, and looking down the Llanberis Pass the low sun behind us highlighted the yellowish grass, the long, black shadows cast by jagged rocks and the deep blue sky which implied a beautiful clear day. After a strenuous couple of miles we overshot the right fork that leads up to Crib Goch, but realised after about a minute and retraced our steps to cross a wall and realise the hidden path, which was less well-trodden than the Pyg.

Crib Goch

After branching right, the real steepness began. The way up Crib Goch is certainly a scramble rather than a hike, and we pulled, pushed and climbed our way up the bare rock. The array of crampon marks and kind-of-paths all heading in the same direction suggested that there was no definitive right way up, so we just headed up the bits of rock that seemed most forgiving.

A lot of ascending and very little “as the crow flies” progress later, the terrain levelled off and we found ourselves on a rocky ridge overlooking the most beautiful panoramic landscape. The entire Snowdon horseshoe was clearly visible in a long, dark curve which towered over and around the glassy, blue-black waters of Glaslyn and Llyn Llydaw, and hazy peaks punctuated the distance in every direction above innocuous, wispy clouds.

We exchanged the generic “lovely day for it” with a couple of hikers having a snack before the Crib Goch traverse, then I led the way along the narrow, uneven, precipitous ridge. To the right, the ground dropped away so sickeningly that it wasn’t worth thinking about the consequences of a small slip. To the left, you’d be lucky to get away with a couple of broken legs. It was exhilarating. Despite the seriousness of any potential fall, we were quite sure-footed and decided that a fall was unlikely in the dry, clear conditions, so we crossed the arete fairly quickly.

Garnedd Ugain

Once across the knife edge,  the next section involved an exciting scramble up, around and across more jagged masses of bare rock until we reached the trig point at the mini-summit of Garnedd Ugain, which is really just a high point along the long ridge between Crib Goch and Snowdon. We watched a red and white rescue helicopter hovering dead still and low above a flat, grassy plateau on the ridge opposite us, along the path we’d take after summiting Snowdon, and decided it was a training exercise rather than an actual rescue. All the while we were surrounded by spectacular views over sprawling ridges, mountains and valleys,  and over the back of that opposite ridge we could see out to the flatter, jutting coastline around Porthmadog.

Snowdon

From there, the way up Snowdon was a bimble. We followed the curve of the ridge round until we joined the Llanberis path, where most of the major routes up the mountain – the Miners, Pyg, Rangers, Llanberis and Crib Goch paths – meet and run parallel with the railway up the wide, gently inclining ridge on Snowdon’s north side. Suddenly there were a lot more people, and we joined the pilgrimage for about 700 metres to reach the distinctive, stepped summit mound, where we queued (a little ashamedly, but it only took a few minutes) for a photo. We had lunch sat on the east side of the summit overlooking Glaslyn and the beautiful, sprawling landscape, thankful for clear weather. It was busy, but not unbearably so being a Monday and the train/summit café being shut – I’ve seen Snowdon much worse.

Y Lliwedd

Refuelled and amused by a couple of sheep that were forcibly interrupting picnics in search of snacks, we sent my dad a happy birthday video message and left the summit before the breeze got to us. We headed onwards down the Rhydd Ddu path, which descends Snowdon’s south side. It was steeper and considerably less busy than the Llanberis path to the north – the majority walk up and down the Miners/Llanberis paths. After a couple of hundred metres we took a sharp left onto the Watkin path, which set our course east, back towards the dark blue water of Llyn Llydaw and in the far distance, invisible behind rocky ridges, our destination – Pen y Pass.

The first half mile was a rocky, steep hike, almost verging on a scramble, down Snowdon’s south east side. It then flattened out a bit and we walked along the path, taking in the view. Ahead of us Y Lliwedd loomed dramatically: its right side swept majestically in a long, gentle curve down to the bottom of another huge cwm*, backed by layers of ridges, hills and eventually flat coastline, and its left dropped away, an intimidatingly high, dark face of bare grey, almost vertical rock.

At the base of the long Y Lliwedd ridge, we left the Watkin path and continued up the bare rock of the jagged mountain. We were scrambling once again, using hands almost as much as feet up the steep ridge, but the climbing was very straightforward and not nearly as exposed as Crib Goch. Eventually we reached the top of the long scramble and were rewarded by stunning views over the almost unrealistically blue, green and grey-brown landscape in front, made up of the rugged, grassy-rocky cwm sides, glassy lake in its belly and hazy, distant ridges under a deep blue sky, which was broken only by a low scattering of fluffy white clouds.

The Home Straight

We walked along the  curved ridge in awe of and slightly overwhelmed by the world, then descended down the more gradual, grassy, unreasonably picturesque slope of its north east side. We reached the edge of Llyn Llydaw, crossed a wooden footbridge and joined the Miners track back to Pen y Pass. I’ve walked this path several times and it never gets shorter; it’s very well-trodden, relatively flat and seems to take forever, although it doesn’t really matter because the scenery is beautiful the whole way. The mountains loomed behind us over the huge, bowl-like, two-tier cwm containing the two lakes, and high, grassy, rocky ridges ran above us either side. Ahead of us the distant, rolling landscape was visible in the V at the end of the valley, as if affording us a glimpse into another world.

The Miners track snaked between smaller ridges, past little Llyn Teyrn and around the end of the lumpy mass of rock that eventually leads up to Crib Goch. The two miles we spent on that path were almost languid, and we reached the Pen y Pass car park just before 2.30pm, which was several hours earlier than we’d expected based on reports from guidebooks/google. The weather had very much been on our side – the horseshoe was obviously a totally different game in wet, windy or winter conditions – but we were pleased to have made it round with a moving time of just under 4 and a half hours at what we considered a leisurely pace.

The Snowdon Horseshoe had been very high on our to-do list for a very long time, so we celebrated its completion with a couple of drinks from the Pen y Pass youth hostel bar. We sat outside basking in the warm afternoon sun and before I knew it I was tipsy, fast approaching full-blown drunk, on a cider and a (single) gin. After an hour or so we got on the double decker bus (front seats at the top, of course – the best view of Llanberis Pass) back to the van.

Evening

Pleased to find that we hadn’t received a parking ticket, we wandered over to the nearby Vaynol Arms, only to find it closed on Mondays. Unfazed, Ryan drove us back along the Llanberis Pass, past the layby we camped in and through Capel Curig to the Tyn y Coed pub we’d been impressed by after climbing Tryfan on Friday. He charmed the very friendly manager into letting us stay in their large car park overnight, and in return we sat in a corner of the pub for a good couple of hours. We planned the following day by poring over climbing books, phoned my dad to say happy birthday and grovel for once again being away on an adventure, ate a pizza and a burger (respectively, not each) and had a couple of drinks before retiring to the van, which was tucked away under some leafy trees, for an early night. Needless to say we slept well.

*a cwm is kind of a three-sided valley / bowl with a single opening

Snowdonia, Sep 21: Climbing Little & Big Tryfan (Pinnacle Rib Route)

5 Comments

What a week. We’ve just returned from an incredible trip to Snowdonia and the mountain blues have hit us like a steam train. Hiking, scrambling, climbing, mountain biking, an island road trip, a smidgeon of wild swimming and several pubs – the last few days have had everything I could have asked for and more.

Friday 17th September

We drove up on Thursday night and stayed in a layby just before Betws y Coed. After a good night’s sleep and eggs on toast for brekkie, we drove west along the A5 through the picturesque valley that cuts through the lush, green Gwydir Forest. Past the trees, the landscape opened out to wild country, where mountains sprawl lazily for miles across rugged land untainted by concrete or tarmac.

Little Tryfan

After a 20 minute drive we parked in the long layby on the A5 just after Gwern Gof Uchaf campsite, nestled in the Ogwen Valley. We fancied a gentle introduction to what we (rightly) anticipated would be a full-on week, so we started with some easy trad climbing on Little Tryfan, where I’d climbed with army cadets a decade ago and Ryan had climbed a couple of years ago. We tramped past Gwern Gof Uchaf and a short distance up the south side of the valley to the huge, slanting rock face, whose gentle angle and solid, grippy rock make it the perfect destination for new or casual climbers.

Most of the wall was being used by a big army group so we walked past them to the far end and climbed “Mossy Slab”, an easy two-pitch route graded HVD. I led the first pitch and Ryan led the second. Some of the gear was good but I found that several of the crack constrictions were “wrong” in that they were V-shaped and didn’t allow nut placements to correspond with the direction of fall, but the climbing was so easy that I was comfortable with running the gear out. At the top we paused to appreciate the stunning view of the Ogwen Valley, then walked down the rightward descent scramble.

We felt that Little Tryfan was one of those “if you’ve climbed one route, you’ve climbed them all” crags, so at the bottom I put forward a case for climbing “big” Tryfan. My arguments were:

  1. the weather was drier and clearer than forecast,
  2. we were part way there anyway,
  3. we’d packed enough equipment to not have to return to the car, and
  4. we’d already discussed climbing it via a certain route called First Pinnacle Rib.

Ryan put up precisely no resistance and insisted that he’d be fine in his battered old Nike skate shoes. It was one of those off-the-cuff decisions that lead to the best days out, and the verdict was unanimous. Off we went.

Tryfan: to Heather Terrace

The first bit involved a steep walk/scramble up to Heather Terrace, the path that runs roughly north-south along Tryfan’s east face and is characterised by uneven rock, unavoidable grey boulders, resolute purple heather and lovely high views over the valley of Cwm Tryfan. Heather Terrace is probably the gentlest and flattest route up Tryfan, a mountain whose summit requires at least a scramble regardless of which way you go.

Once we were in roughly the right place along the path, we searched the rock for the start of the climbing route. We’d eyed up First Pinnacle Rib (also called Overlapping Ridge Route), a classic VDiff multi-pitch that featured in both our new Rockfax book and Kev’s (Ryan’s dad) 1990 Constable guide, which Kev had climbed years before. We couldn’t easily tell exactly where the routes were as the rock to our right was high, steep and looked very much the same, and the photos in the guidebooks were taken from further back – we’d have fallen off the side of the mountain if we stepped back to gain the same vantage point.

After a frustrating 20 minutes or so I spotted “FPR” vaguely etched into a slab. Kev had told us that “1PR” was scratched at the bottom of the route, so we assumed that the “1” had been turned into an “F” at some point and didn’t investigate further. A few days later we spotted in the Rockfax book that FPR actually and misleadingly denotes the start of Pinnacle Rib Route, fortunately another classic VDiff which is next to First Pinnacle Rib, so that’s what we set out on.

Tryfan: Pinnacle Rib Route, the nice bit

We shoed, harnessed, helmeted, geared and roped up and I led the first pitch, an easy line up a big groove with good gear and solid holds. Ryan followed me up and led the second pitch up a rib, again with good gear and holds. I came up and led the third; we weren’t exactly following Rockfax’s instructions as to where to climb/belay, but just doing what looked good and felt right. I paused a couple of times to snack on some wild bilberries that grow on scrubby bushes all over the mountain.

The first slightly sketchy section came at what I thought was “Yellow Slab”, an infamous polished wall. With hindsight and research I don’t think it was Yellow Slab, but I found myself on a flat, vertical face covered in thin yellowish lichen, few holds and fewer gear placements, just past a flat ledge and out of Ryan’s view. I felt strong and confident so I pulled myself up, managed to place a small blue nut which subsequently popped out shortly after I climbed above it, and belayed from just above it – fortunately it was quite short.

We were enjoying the climbing hugely and flying up quickly until Ryan finished the fourth pitch and belayed me up. The sky was starting to cloud over and at one point I was climbing above a rainbow, which was cool. However, Ryan had gone slightly off-piste by climbing in whichever direction he liked the look of, and we weren’t entirely sure where we were. We read something in the book about walking rightwards for 20m and belaying, so we tramped right up some awkward wet, heathery ground and stopped at a slightly ominous-looking corner crack.

Tryfan: Pinnacle Rib Route? The ordeal

For reasons that will become clear, I don’t have any photos of this section. The weather had closed in, the stunning views had gone, we were starting to get damp and Type 1 fun was rapidly turning into Type 2. Looking a little reluctantly at the wet corner, I started up it and quickly realised that opportunities to place gear were scarce. It followed a crack up a corner between two fairly bare slabs which tilted towards each other at a shallow angle, not enough to properly bridge, meaning that I had to trust my shoes to grip the damp rock on tiny or next-to-no holds while I made some awkward upper body moves. The crack itself was slimy and mossy and the gear placements just got worse.

I climbed quite slowly, constantly weighing up whether to carry on or come down. The gear became so run-out that if I slipped it’d have been a ground fall onto the ledge where Ryan was belaying (very supportively and encouragingly despite his soaking wet shoes, to his credit), a fact of which I was painfully conscious. When I was climbing my head was calm, clear and acutely aware of everything, but when I paused to look for a much-needed gear placement I felt genuine fear. I’m not used to that feeling – there’s a difference between the adrenaline-inducing thrill of climbing above a bolt at a crag, flying down a steep mountain bike trail or scrambling along an exposed ridge, or even worrying a little that we’d get back later than planned after a big day out, and real, spine-chilling, one-wrong-move-means-hello-mountain-rescue fear.

Eventually I reached a good handhold where I placed two nuts. I didn’t allow relief to wash through me because the next few metres looked as bare as the previous few. I convinced myself to carry on, then proceeded to put myself through the same torment as before, with a long, run-out, balancey few moves up slippery rock until eventually (another potential ground fall later) I reached a horn of rock, which I threw a sling over, clipped into and fully exhaled for the first time in a good few minutes. From there I clambered up onto another horn, which I straddled tightly and belayed Ryan up from, genuinely relieved to be unscathed.

Ryan followed me up and congratulated me on being alive and unbroken, then led the next pitch up an awkward channel which luckily had plenty of gear placements. I followed him, a bit shaky from my belaying position, and met him at his belay. I was a bit disheartened not to see Adam and Eve, the two adjacent pillars that mark the summit, but after a slightly awkward scramble up a column of rock they emerged through the clag to our immense relief.

Tryfan: summit, descent

Ryan clambered up first and did the famous leap between the pillars to gain the “freedom of Tryfan”. I followed, still a little shaken from that hellish pitch, and jumped across before I could ponder the sheer drop to the left, the wide gap between the rocks or the slippery-looking, uneven surfaces on the tops. Ryan thought it funny to tell me I had to do it again as he’d missed the photo; I did not find it funny. Fortunately (for him) he’d captured it perfectly.

We swapped climbing shoes for Scarpa approach shoes / Nike pumps (joking that Ryan was now “that person” we hate to see up mountains), munched a cheese salad sandwich and walked down the steep south side of the mountain until we branched left and rejoined Heather Terrace. The terrain was awkward, uneven and very rocky, and our knees took a battering all the way down. The clag lifted as we descended, the landscape-defining artery of Nant Gwern y Gof appeared way below us to the right, and eventually the views over the long Ogwen Valley returned.

The Perfect Ending: pub, curry, van

We passed behind Little Tryfan, through Gwen Gof Uchaf and returned to the van around 5.30pm, pleased to see the bikes hadn’t been stolen and slightly amused that we’d only travelled just over 4 miles (2,000ft elevation aside). We threw our stuff in and drove the short distance down the A5 back to Tyn-y-Coed, a nice, welcoming pub Ryan had frequented on a previous trip with his brother. I was revived by a cider and an Irish coffee, then Ryan drove us back along the A5 to a car park by Llyn Ogwen, a wild, peaceful mountain lake overlooked by Tryfan.

Several vans were already parked up and there were no signs so we decided to settle for the evening. I cooked a Thai green chicken curry which was admittedly pretty good, especially after the day we’d had, and with hindsight, we could (almost) laugh about the strange route we’d taken up the mountain. We slept very well.

Ben Macdui, Cairn Gorm & Loch Morlich: Scotland day 6, Sep ’20

Leave a comment

We had heard from Ryan’s dad how difficult Ben Macdui could be to navigate in poor conditions, so we set off around 8:30am from the Cairngorm Mountain upper car park. It was clear and dry but the clouds hung like a heavy, grey blanket just above the tips of the distant peaks behind us. To our left was a short valley headed by a ridge of bare rock towering over a small loch, Coire an Lochain, and in front was a vast expanse of brown heather and rock-strewn, yellow-gold grass, ascending gradually towards the high horizon that hid the great plateau of Ben Macdui.

The mountain lay directly south of the car park and the walk-in was long and gentle. Because the Cairngorm peaks perch on a plateau that already rises way above sea level, they don’t have the jagged drama of the western mountains and they’re generally more walkable. The gravel path was easy to follow for the first 3 or 4 miles (obviously a different story in snow), until the ground turned from grassy moorland to boulderfields. We hopped from rock to rock, reassured by the occasional cairn. The last mile was steeper and as we climbed the fog thickened, so we were glad for the many cairns that led up to the summit.

There were lots of little rock shelters at the top and after a quick trig point photo (10:30am), we huddled into one and made a brew. As is often the case with high, beautiful places, the fog ruined all our chances of appreciating the landscape and allowed us a view only of the barren, flat, rock-strewn top of the mountain. It felt like we had walked onto another planet.

We headed back down the way we came and when the steep bit levelled out, we took a right fork along a new path towards Cairn Gorm. The fog cleared as we walked past the high, glassy Lochan Buidhe, and we enjoyed a leisurely stroll for the next 2 miles along relatively flat ground. We looked back at Ben Macdui and saw that the cloud had lifted, revealing its dark, hulking peak peering over the vast expanse of yellow-brown, open land, backed by similar dark summits and veined with rivers reflecting the white cloud above.

Looking towards Cairn Gorm (over the hill on the left)

We walked along the rocky ridge that towers above Coire an Sneachda with the grassy plain on our right and a sheer drop down bare rock to our left. The last 500m up Cairn Gorm were very steep and rocky, and we summited about 1pm. At the top sits a big cairn and a weather station, which consists of a small scaffold tower with some metal contraptions sticking out of it and a big black cylinder on a raised platform. It was quite busy as a lot of people walked to the top and back from the car park, so we didn’t hang around, although the view was lovely – panoramic, the horizon formed on all sides by rolling blue mountains.

  • Looking back towards Ben Macdui from Cairn Gorm

We descended the steep-ish path north past the Ptarmigan centre and the ski lift, keeping a hopeful eye out as Ryan wanted to see a ptarmigan. Sadly the rocky, heathery ground was birdless. We finished our circular route back at the van around 2pm, had a quick nose in the visitor centre (which was largely closed due to covid) and decided to head down to Loch Morlich in the Glenmore valley for a swim.

We had set aside the whole day for our hike as we’d expected navigation to be a lot more difficult than it was, so I was happy to fit a quick swim in. There were signs at Loch Morlich warning of blue-green algae, but having been exposed without any effects before I decided to swim anyway. I wasn’t in the water for long as I was hungry and still a little wary of the algae (and the duck poo – I found myself in the middle of a flock), but the cold was exhilarating. The worst bit was peeling off my wetsuit in the car park as I shivered myself dry.

  • The way down from Cairn Gorm

Ryan wanted to camp in the same place as we had the previous night, but that was on a dead-end road and as we’d ticked Ben Macdui off I wanted to explore somewhere else. After a brief “negotiation” we decided to grab some supplies from Aviemore and take the A939 road that runs south down the east side of the Cairngorms so we could see the town of Braemar and perhaps climb Lochnagar. The drive was lovely, and after an hour or so we found a good overnight spot at a quarry just outside the village of Tomintoul.

On our customary poke around we found a sculpture on a hill above the quarry, which was like a 3D mirrored picture frame a couple of metres deep that framed the pretty hills behind it. We had tinned chicken in white wine sauce (surprisingly good), rice and veg for dinner, and my highlight of the evening was Ryan returning from a toilet trip with reports of swooping owls and screeching rabbits, and one soggy foot from the only boggy ground in the vicinity.

Ben Nevis climb via Tower Ridge: Scotland day 2, Sep ’20

2 Comments

We parked in the North Face car park just north east of Fort William and set off through the dense, wild Leanachan forest. We practically trotted through the trees, flailing limbs at the infamous West Highland midges and – although the forest was enchanting – were keen to put as much distance as possible between our as yet unbitten skin and the river by the car park.

We emerged onto a wide sweep of heather dotted with bright green shrubbery and small broadleaf trees, backed by the majestic hump of Ben Nevis’s north face, dark against the clear blue sky. Our next destination, the CIC hut, sat neatly at the head of the valley in a cosy, three-sided bowl formed by Carn Dearg, Ben Nevis and Carn Mor Dearg, looking down the length of the Allt a Mhuilinn river to a north-westerly horizon full of hazy blue mountains. Our path up to the hut was well-maintained and parallel to the river, so there was no real prospect of getting lost. The tricky bit would be determining our target – Tower Ridge.

We had no guidebook and the previous night’s googling yielded little light on the exact location of the ridge, so we were going off a couple of vague diagrams and a singular, hand-drawn map found on google images. At the hut, where a handful of raggedy climbers and seasoned-looking walkers congregated, we munched a sandwich and identified what we were fairly certain was Tower Ridge – a narrow, protruding finger of rock that joins the high, plateaued ridge between Ben Nevis and Car Mor Dearg at a 90 degree angle.

The giveaway was the Douglas boulder, a hulking mass of rock at the base of the ridge. From the hut, we walked, then scrabbled, up the loose, rocky debris that constituted the ground. It was hard work and the ridge definitely felt further away than it had appeared. Eventually we got to the other side of the Douglas boulder, turned towards its vast east face and started climbing, now in the dark shadow of the formidable Ben. This is considered a more sensible way to gain the ridge than from the west, even though the walk-in is longer.

Buzzing at the first real bit of exposure, we stopped once we were straddling the spine of the ridge to take in the view and decide whether to get the rope out. Although the way was steep and either side of the ridge was treacherously sheer, we decided against it for this first section; the holds looked big and solid, and we were confident that it was no more than a steep scramble. It wasn’t long, however, before we got to a more questionable face on the west side of the ridge.

We roped up and I led the first pitch, which turned out to be less technical than it had looked. I set up a quick anchor and brought Ryan up safely, then we scrambled on carrying a few feet of rope between us, coils stored over shoulders, not secured to the ridge but confident with the easy climbing. We moved at a steady pace, sometimes debating whether to use the rope and, more often than not, deciding against it. On our left loomed the intimidatingly dark, sheer face of Ben Nevis, and on our right we were spoilt by seemingly endless stretches of lush heathland, green forests and blue mountains.

There was one sketchy moment when we decided that the best route was to go left around the ridge, only to realise – once I was balancing somewhat precariously above the apparently bottomless east face – that the holds were few and far between and some of the rock was loose, and that we should have gone right. Ryan quickly took the most convincing right hand route and set up an anchor, so I could climb safely out of my uncomfortable, teetering position. I wasn’t happy with my Salomon Quest boots, as they’re thick-soled and chunky – perfect for hiking but not for use as climbing shoes, as I could barely feel the rock between my feet and I didn’t trust the grip. It would have been a little too easy to tread a little too aggressively and misjudge a foothold. Ryan’s LaSportiva XXX approach shoes, on the other hand, were perfect for the purpose – grippy and flexible enough that he could feel holds with accuracy, but without the foot-choking tightness of climbing shoes.

About three-quarters of the way along, we found ourselves squeezing up a narrow tunnel on the left hand side of the ridge. After giggling at the ungainly way we each emerged from the gap, we looked up and realised that our next move wasn’t obvious. Up until now, it had seemed that there was no “right” route along the ridge, apart from that which didn’t take us too close to either of its perilous sides. Here, we were pinned to one side and faced an unlikely-looking climb upwards, or a tight traverse along the left side of the ridge, which seemed to take us downwards. We chose left, but stopped at a strange whistling sound. A moment later, a cheery-looking climber popped out of the tunnel, wearing just a pair of bright yellow shorts, trainers and a small rucksack. We asked him the way and he grinned as he told us it was not left but “up”, then proceeded to float up the wall with irritating ease. He explained that this was the most difficult move of the route, probably around VDiff, but foraged around with his arm in a crack and reassured us that there’s a good hold somewhere.

Bemused by his timely appearance and nonchalent manner, we climbed upwards after him, roped up. He was long gone by the time we’d reached the top of that section, Great Tower. Ahead of us was the bit of the ridge that we’d watched videos of, and which we were looking forward to most. Ryan led the way across the most exposed part of the route, which is a skinny arete about 50 feet long and as wide as a pavement, which drops down hundreds of sheer feet either side. It was exhilarating to walk across, and I picked each uneven step carefully – although I was on belay, the length of the traverse meant that a fall would mean a nasty swing and crash against one of the ridge’s treacherous faces.

At the end of the pavement was the famous Tower Gap, a break in the ridge that required a slight downclimb and committal step across to the other side. The holds were good, and I joined Ryan quickly. From  there, the way to the top was quite straightforward – up and over another high, but solid, grey mass, unroped. We pulled over onto the Nevis plateau elated and to the shock of several hikers.

We walked left along the flat top to the summit, which was teeming with people.  It was as if we’d suddenly plunged back into reality, the timeless thrill of the climb behind us. On the ridge, we’d overtaken a group of three and been overtaken by whistling guy, but otherwise hadn’t seen anyone up close (we could see people on the plateau from the ridge) for hours. We took in the panoramic view of endless mountains, layered on top of each other in an enticing blue haze, had a sandwich and (to our horror) queued for a quick summit picture. People eyed us with interest, and a group asked us whether we’d climbed up. I refrained from telling them that “no, I wear a harness everywhere and the rope’s for show”, and we made our way down the loose, zig-zag pony track before we got too peopled out.

The view over Glen Nevis was stunning, but unfortunately we were busy focusing on each loose, uneven step down to appreciate it fully. We passed a waterfall and came to a fork near the dark water of Lochan Meall an t-suidhe, where most people went left down the pony track. We went right, which took us east around the north face of Carn Mor Dearg and back along a long path towards the CIC hut. Before we reached the hut, we cut left down the bank to cross the river and join the path we’d come up that morning, but not as soon as we could have – we were keen to avoid finding a bog, which we’ve become uncannily adept at.

I stopped to pick a handful of bilberries, which are lovely, sweet little wild blueberries that grow on low, scrubby bushes. The walk back to the van back down the Allt a Mhullain river was beautiful, and we soaked in the wilderness of open heath speckled with lilac cornflowers, pink heather and leafy green bushes, backed by dark forest and countless mountains. Breathtaking, but still we were keen to get back; we were starving, walking on sore feet and eager to find a pub.

Eventually we reached Leanachan forest. In its late afternoon quietness, it took on a sense of mystery that we hadn’t felt earlier; it was as if the trees were watching us pass, but it was peaceful, rather than creepy. Our heightened senses took in the grassy, mossy carpet, the lichen growing abundantly on the dark side of the trees, the fungi nestling in crevices and the intricate detail on the bark of the gnarly birches and towering pines. Every time I’ve been to Scotland, I’ve noted that there’s something magical about the forests.

We got back to the van, shut out the midges and de-booted. A twenty minute drive later and we were at the Ben Nevis Inn, tucked on one bank of the valley of Glen Nevis. We were pleased to see that we could stay overnight in the Achintree Road car park, right by the pub down a dead-end road. Unfortunately the pub was full indoors and booking-only, thanks to covid, but we enjoyed a pint of Thistly Cross cider (delicious) in the garden. I’d recommend the pub – amazing location and lovely looking inside, an old barn I think. That night we cooked and enjoyed a couple of ciders in the van before collapsing into bed, exhausted. We’d been incredibly lucky to have had clear, sunny weather all day – that night, it’d be an understatement to say the rain came.