Tag: scrambling

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

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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

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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

Lakes Rampage 2020, Day 8: Helvellyn

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Thanks to our unplanned late night and the sorry state I was in (see last paragraph of previous post) we got up later than intended. By the time we’d queued for a parking ticket (a terrible experience), packed a couple of small rucksacks and set off towards Helvellyn along Mires Beck, the footpaths were heinously busy.

We looked up in horror at the multi-coloured ribbon of people stretching up the hill in front of us, cursing the fact that we hadn’t started earlier. People bumbled up in Doc Martens, flashy Nikes and clothing that looked a little too sparkly to be on the side of a mountain. We took every opportunity we could to overtake, flying past people grappling with umbrellas and theme-park type ponchos as it started to rain.

I think it’s wonderful that people are getting outdoors and appreciating our beautiful, wild landscapes, so long as everyone is respectful. Litter makes me furious, as do call-outs to Mountain Rescue due to inappropriate clothing and preparation. It sounds hypocritical as we were up there too, but this time, there were just a few too many people traipsing up for my liking.

  • Helvellyn in the clouds, Striding Edge on the left and Catstye Cam on the right

We did the steep climb onto Birkhouse Moor in good time, barely saying a word to each other as we rushed up for some less populated breathing space. The throng had subsided by the time the distinctive, jagged profile of Striding Edge came into view, so we slowed the pace and started to appreciate the rugged, green landscape. Helvellyn towered in the clouds above the black, slightly eerie Red Tarn, which sat between the two sharp ridges that lead up the mountain, Striding and Swirral Edge.

I’ve done Striding Edge once before, but Ryan hadn’t and he was a little disappointed. It’s a good, fun scramble, but there’s no real exposure and it feels very safe. The rock is good and we only needed to use our hands in a couple of places. I think it would have been a lot more fun if there were fewer people up there, as we got held up a lot and the busy-ness detracted from the wild, unforgiving feel that a rocky ridge should have. We noted all the crampon scratches on the rock and decided that it’d be a good one to come back to in winter.

At the end of the ridge, which is about half a mile long, we overtook some more groups and climbed up Helvellyn proper. On the summit plateau there’s a touching memorial to Foxie the dog whose master, in 1805, fell from the mountain and was found three months later with Foxie still barking by his side.

We were lucky in that by the time we reached the plateau, the cloud had lifted and we had a panoramic view of the dramatic mountainscape. The wild peaks of the Wythburn, Langdale, Borrowdale and Derwent Fells stretched in blue, hazy layers into the distance, and suddenly all the other people on the mountain seemed to fall away into insignificance.

We took a very quick trig point picture (well, three – see unsuccessful attempts below, when we both – true to form – managed to squint alternately) and continued along the plateau towards Swirral Edge, which flanks Helvellyn opposite Striding Edge. This part of the descent was a fun, but even easier and less exposed scramble than Striding Edge, and once again we had to do some overtaking. At the bottom we took the left branch of the footpath which took us up Catstye Cam, an easy 890m summit about a kilometre north east of Helvellyn.

  • Striding Edge
  • Attempt 1
  • Attempt 2
  • Swirral Edge

The way down was less busy, very picturesque and so well-trodden that we almost forgot we were in the mountains. It joined the path that we’d hiked up earlier and, apart from the lovely, mountain-green scenery that I’ve already gushed over, quite unmemorable – so much so that with hindsight I’d guess that the hike back took 20 minutes, although it must have been longer as Glenridding was over two miles away.

  • Up Catstye Cam

We grabbed some food from one of the two convenience shops in the village, went back to the van to  escape people for a little while, then wandered down to the edge of Ullswater. We looked out over the lake as the evening crept in, taking in the serenity of the vast, glassy surface with its high, rugged, green backdrop, glowing in the late sun. We just sat for a while, reflecting on how much fun our trip had been and silently resenting the fact that it was nearly over.

We headed back up to the Traveller’s Rest for one, then back to the van for Scrabble n chill. A good way to spend a Saturday night.

  • The Traveller’s Rest

Scotland, Day 4: The Cairngorms – Lochnagar

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Lord Byron eulogised this mountain in 1807:

England! thy beauties are tame and domestic

To one who has roved o’er the  mountains afar:

Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic,

The steep frowning glories of the dark Loch na Garr.

In contrast, Queen Victoria wrote of Lochnagar in September 1848:

“But alas! Nothing whatever to be seen; and it was cold, and wet, and cheerless. At about twenty minutes after two we set off on our way downwards, the wind blowing a hurricane, and the mist being like rain, and everything quite dark with it”.

After experiencing Lochnagar on a bleak day in December, I agree with the poet’s “wild”, “steep” and “dark” but otherwise I’m with Queen Vic. We woke bright and early in the Spittal of Glenmuick and met our friend Mike at the Lochnagar car park before sunrise. We set off on the 10ish-mile hike in a mix of fog, drizzle and gloom, disappointed with the weather but glad for the company.

The first section took us across a flat, heather-covered plain, with Loch Muick away to the south and a dark line of trees to the north. We couldn’t see much through the fog, but I knew that Loch Muick was cradled on three sides by steep ridges; I expect it’s stunning on a clear day. Lochnagar is within a few miles of the Balmoral estate, and I could just imagine the Queen (maybe a few years ago) tearing round the track in a Landrover, or a shotgun-wielding Philip bumbling after some grouse.

It was an easygoing route  for about three miles, along a wide, stony track up a gradual incline. We branched off left about a mile east of Meikle Pap, where the track turned into a slabbed stone path. I got overexcited at catching a glimpse of a few startled red grouse, then we hit the snow and the hike got a bit more complicated.

Just as the path started getting scrambley, patches of snow appeared. Snow does a great job of concealing paths, especially when the landscape is strewn with rocks, covered in wild, tufty vegetation and bereft of other summit-seeking humans. We followed it as best we could but did a lot of guessing, aiming in the direction of “up” and “west-ish”.

The vegetation disappeared, and after scrambling up a formless sea of steep, slippery rocks, keeping close to avoid losing each other, we hit real trouble – just as I got excited at a flock of winter-white ptarmigans. Mulling over why on earth anything would choose to live up there, we struggled through an annoying mix of soft, calf-deep snow and hard, unyielding ice. As we reached a kind of plateau, the rocks grew sparse, the climb became less steep, and the already hurricane-like conditions worsened.

Lochnagar stands at a lofty 1,156m above sea level and curves around a beautiful northern corrie (I know it’s pretty thanks to Google images). The path follows the ridge along the top edge of the corrie, so the exposure is huge and complacency could result in a massive fall. This was problematic as by this time visibility was non-existent, we were ill-equipped (no crampons or axes – terrible foresight) and we didn’t know exactly where the summit was. Or where we were.

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White-out

As we pushed on, I truly understood the term “white-out” for the first time. The only way to distinguish “up” and “down” was by looking at the other two and seeing where their feet were in relation to their heads. Ice, snow, cloud and sky all merged into one disorienting, blinding, infinite nothingness, like in a dream in a film, until little dark specks appeared and I tried to blink them away. Communication was limited to shouting in each others’ ears, and any exposed inch of skin was beaten raw by the strong, bitterly icy winds.

Just when it couldn’t get any worse, it did. We reached a false summit and the ground became sheet ice. Literally like an ice rink, only harder and less flat. I’m sure we went round in circles for a bit, slipping over constantly, resorting to bum-shuffling and actually laughing at our own ridiculousness while remaining acutely aware of our proximity to the deadly edge of the ridge. Still determined to reach the summit, we paused for a painfully cold moment to check the map and decided simply to follow the compass north to where we thought it was.

This decisiveness saved the day, and as the towering pile of rocks loomed through the whiteness I almost collapsed with relief – I’ve never been so delighted to reach a trigpoint. I slipped onto my trusty old compass and snapped it, fortunately without stabbing myself, but it had done what it needed to do. We fumbled about for a quick photo, then practically flew back down the mountain, eyebrows, eyelashes and beards (even mine) heavy with ice.

I would have liked to make it a circular route and gone back along the north side of Loch Muick, but given the conditions we decided the way we came was the quickest and most certain way to the pub, and it’d look the same anyway. The fog had cleared slightly once we were back on the wide, stony track, revealing a rugged, heathery landscape. From there, the walk back was made a drag by our cold, wet-through clothes and desperation for a drink, but we reached the car park eventually. Lochnagar is definitely one to come back to on a better day, but I was glad for the adventure we had.

Semi-thawed, we drove to find a pub before heading to Perth for the night. We ended up collapsing on the sofas in the Deeside Inn at Ballater. It couldn’t have stood in starker contrast to the bleakness of a few hours earlier; the lounge was a huge room with deep red walls, thick curtains and dark wood beams, lit softly and warmed by a roaring fire. It had tartan sofas with pheasant-patterned cushions, a big Christmas tree, books, boardgames, a piano, complimentary crisps and (most importantly) cider. I think my life peaked at that moment – in there, the world was perfect.

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