a story featured in Global magazine
Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side. Steve Thomas steps out on to the jagged edges of the Snowdon Horseshoe;
" Where have you come from? " asked John
of the two lost trekkers who’d asked to tag along with us; " Czech
Republic " came the answer, muted and blurred some by the horrendous
wind; " Which way are you going back ? " Came John’s response.
They just looked blankly at one another, while I grinned silently in the sure
and certain knowledge that John had not heard a damn word of that first answer.
Atop the summit of Snowdon I explained to him what had been said, duly we
erupted in to fits of laughter as two quivering Czechs headed for the train
back to Llanberis.
Three hours earlier we’d set out from Pen Y Pass on a mission to conquer
the infamous Snowdon Horseshoe. Admittedly I’m no climber, and had been
hankering after dragging my bike insanely around it’s jagged edges, but
being as the route was just about all footpath it’d been ruled out. John,
on the other hand, had run the route a few times in the past, as part of the
Welsh 300O meter fell running race, and podiumed most times too.
The difference today was that the route was somewhat snow covered, and there
was a howling wind mixed in just for fun. We’d also decided to make the
trip in reverse, leaving the technical scrambling till last, as with the weather
forecast it didn’t look to be feasible anyway.
Stretching our legs out along the Miners Track, at the start of the walk,
had been a calm and sunny, but false, intro to the day. The lakes sparkled,
the snow glistened on the high peaks above, and a peaceful calm lay all around,
am I sounding like some Christmas fairy tale ?
From this gently rising path you can see just about the whole of the route,
which as the name suggests runs along a horseshoe like ridge, which totally
encircles the Utopia like lake area of the valley. They say this is one of
the most spectacular ridge walks in the whole of Europe, and looking up from
our toilet basin stance it sure did look impressive. The surrounding ridges
were long, steep, and intimidatingly jagged, the climb up there didn’t
bare thinking about. But I comforted myself with the knowledge that at least
we wouldn’t have to face the ridge top cloud swirl and wind.
From the calm of the valley it’s upwards, straight up. A long and sweaty
scramble slowly drew us up to the summit of Y Lliwedd, and well above the
snow line. The wind was getting pretty fearsome, and the snow was a nightmare
to walk with. We were now on to the very rim of this great toilet basin, and
some rim it was too. The track dips and drops on and off the jagged ridge
as it meanders it’s wild and enticing way on towards the distant heights
of Snowdon it’s self.
To our left the mountain sloped neatly away to the Nant Gwynant valley and
lake, which from this godly height appeared to have it’s own sunny micro
climate, huh. To the right, well, that was a whole different story; sheer
sided cliffs capped with jagged pinnacles all the way back down to the lakes
bellow, one false hand-hold or a slipped foot and it’d be curtains.
Scrambling down some we stumbled on a torn down and abandoned tent, amidst
my
Mallory and Irvine jokes we tentatively checked it for bodies, luckily there
were none inside. From here on it was to be a long and slippery climb up towards
Snowdon. This was also where we stumbled upon the two lost Czechs, just standing
there looking up at the disappearing snow trail to the summit. They’d
obviously come up from Nant Gwynant, and had seriously underestimated the
severity of the late winter conditions.
Onwards it was, ever steepening, and the snow ever deepening. After around
an hour of climbing we hit a white out. The track had totally disappeared,
my natural reactions said left, but John insisted on right, and sure enough
just a few minutes later we summited Snowdon.
Top
guns What the ...., they were everywhere;
Guys in shorts, kids in pumps, and even old women. The summit was like a McDonalds
on a Saturday; over crowded, over stimated and cold with it. Even so we clambered
up to the summit trig point, and as we stood there, right on cue, so the shrouding
clods cleared, right before our eyes. I think John saw this as some kind of
good omen; " Eey, look at that. You know, i think those pinnacles are
a goer after all ... " Unable to say no Steve just shrugged his eye brows
and followed on.
As the clouds cleared and the masses swarmed their way to the top so we were
treated to the clear and crisp views right across Snowdonia, and on to Anglesey
- and down to the train, which had transported the masses to the summit. For
us though, it was to be the hard way down, across then down the rocky pinnacles
of Crib Goch.
The wind was seriously blowy as we plodded through the snow and on towards
the narrowing trail to the pinnacles. Standing up was enough of a problem,
but balancing in the snow made it a whole load more exciting, and a tad dangerous
too. As for the views, absolutely stunning, and I understood exactly why this
is rated as one of the finest of all ridge walks. The problem was that with
the conditions it was impossible to lose concentration for a second, there
was no room for error or sight seeing.
The pinnacles themselves are a serious business, especially from this direction.
The snow was a problem, and climbing down is never easy, but the wind, oh
boy. It didn’t ease either; the ridge goes on forever, and is seriously
pointed, jagged, and drops straight on down to the valley floor. Scaling our
way across was pretty scary at times, and energy sapping with it. The wind
forced us to a clinging crawl along it’s whole length. Once you’re
on you’re pretty well committed to getting across it in one; " It’ll
be a miracle if someone isn’t killed on here today, lets just hope it’s
not one of us." Commented John as we climbed around some insane pinnacle
with the wind howling in our ears.
Boy, did that make me feel good.
All I wanted to do was get off this evil beast of a dragon’s ridge. After
spending a good hour on our knees it was time to go missionary. On to our
backs we de-scaled the steep rock faced highway towards the comfort of the
cafe. The wind was still raging against our measly efforts, and the snow still
playing footsy with out feet. But at least we could see the cafe from here.
By the time we finally slid our way down to the friendly steps of the Pyg
Track we were both well bruised and near legless from the drop off. Those
last few minutes of track towards the cafe were tough, with neither of us
able to lift our legs high enough to match the steps. Painful as it was, and
the hard way round,
but; " By eck, it were a grand day out." closed John.
