“There’s always someone worst off than you”. It just so happened to be the phrase catapulting its spitefully twisted way around my cold painful skull. That and “There’s no such thing as bad weather, only inadequate clothing”. Both of these terms of endearment, of which there are many, were just a few of the little mementos that occupied my chief outdoor instructors arsenal of vocabulary. For the split second I drifted into light sleep. I dreamt that I was kneeling by my bed of rock, the night before Christmas, praying for things like heat, dry clothes, a bed and insulated walling. Never before had I been so cold and wet. I woke up and looked at my cheep glow-in-the-dark watch. It was 1.30am
We made our way as quick as we could through the Welsh valley. The van was restricted to sixty miles and hour. The windows were completely fogged up. No matter how hard or how often I tried to keep the glass clear the heat inside the lumbering vehicle was too hot. There was no ventilation. A fact that really hits you when it’s choc full of sweaty betties on the return journey. No. Airing out the van was impossible. And looking out of the window was pointless. I couldn’t see a thing.
My friends and I were on our way to
Cadair Idris in
Snowdonia to spend the night navigating and practising our orientation skills. It is essential, if you want to be a
Summer Mountain Leader, to be able to lead groups off the hill safely. In an emergency you must be able to deal with poor visibility in all conditions other than snow. As well as navigating you must be able to show or prove you can survive the night with as little in the way of camping gear as you, in a real situation, would have on your person.
We decided to use the area East of
Llyn Gafr to do most of our night navigation. It looked ideal. There appeared to be plenty of streams, walls, intriguing contour lines and features to get our teeth into. I looked forwards to tried to see where we were going but being at the back of a 12-person van puts you at a slight disadvantage where view is concerned. I could see as much up front as I could my fogged up window.
Shortly after we arrived at the car park near Ty-nant the weather cleared a little. We quickly geared up to keep dry. Once we’d worked out our pacing per 100 metres (65 steps for me) we headed up the trail towards the Pony Path. Every stream we passed burst with water. I knew then that I’d better enjoy having dry socks as long as I could.
Working on our navigation we headed off of the trail before the
Pony Path began and all took turns leading a section. One would take 100 metre chunks others 200 or 300 metres. The more cock sure would go for 500 or 700 metres leads. But more often than not looked rather sheepish when they got 450 metres down the line and were knee deep in a bog. This was swimming.
Before nightfall we headed up towards Llyn Gafr, following the stream at its head along the craggy caves.
Cadair Idris’ steep walls lingered to our right. The ridgeline shrouded in early evening mist. The rock, with its haunting demeanour loitered over us. I felt a bit deflated. I was cold and the rain was relentless beating us from every direction. I was soaked. It had only taken four hours.
We decided to take a break and headed into a near by cave. An old shelter put together years ago. It was our only refuge from the weather. Built with some crude wooden beams and corrugated iron roofing it was a godsend. The only problem was I didn’t get into the thing quickly enough. And as a result spent the hour sat under the dripping part of the roof gale force winds at my back and moss flavour rainwater trickling into my mouth. I brewed up a cup of tea and chewed my way through some Spanish sausage and cold pasta. I sat there completely miserable. What the hell was I doing here? You’d have to be a complete idiot to get into a situation like this with a real group. We decided to move to get the heat flowing again. The temperature had dropped considerably and daylight was diminishing fast. I did my Bear Grylls’ windmill arms to get the blood flowing and I was ready to go again.
We had all decided to have a stab at navigated in the dark. I few of us got in a complete mess and it wasn’t funny. All humour had long since gone. But when Crissy got stuck in a knee-deep bog I couldn’t help but chuckle. We were all almost swallowed saving her. More chaos ensued. Adrian almost walked off a 12-metre drop and I had a small heart attack when a sheep popped his head over a mound. Things were not going well. Following the wire fence we managed to retrace our steps and fell back on navigating off of concrete features (like contour edges or high points, buildings or walls).
It was getting late and by the time it came around to my navigation section again I’d had enough. Going back to the cave seemed like a free night at a Marriott Hotel complete with buffet breakfast. I raced on with my navigation section getting us close to the craggy cave but then I put my knee out jumping a fence, which left me grimacing with every step.
Allen and Mike took over and led us back to the cave. I so was determined to get a space in mossy dripping den so I raced ahead and shot into the cave like a rabbit down a hole. I was cold, wet and miserable. Mike pulled out his tarp and closed off the hole to keep the wind at bay. My knee was causing me great pain. It felt like ligament damage. I took off my boots and rang the water from my socks. I was so cold I didn’t want to get into my bivy bag. I opened my rucksack expecting to pull out a dry top by it was as drenched as my socks. I squeezed the water out as Mike uttered the unthinkable “well, there’s always someone worst off than you”. I felt like ringing his neck and pinching his breathable
Alp Kit bivy bag. I had to chuckle to myself when it caught fire on his gas burner.
I pulled out my recently acquired orange £3.99 survival bag and blew up my
Therm-a-rest. I slipped into my sleeping position like I was implanting myself into my very own body bag. The wind howled and beat down on the corrugated roof. I had a huge boulder above my head that I just couldn’t stop thinking about. I felt like I was buried alive. Tom handed me his pocket flask of whiskey. I took a huge gulp and whished I had more to knock me out.
The night was long. All I could hear were drips and creaking rock. All four of us were quite. Tom, Mike and Crissy didn’t say a word. I couldn’t even hear them breath. I couldn’t sleep. As hard as I tried it was no use. All I could do was close my eyes and pretend. I checked my watch every 15 minutes, every 30 minutes, every hour.
At six thirty I had decided enough was enough and got out of my wet sack. My teeth rattled like a withdrawing drug addict. I shivered out of control. This was good though, I told myself, the mussels were working. I brewed some water for oatmeal and forced a blackened squashed banana down while I meticulously packed my gear. I wanted to get up and out bag
Cadair Idris and get the hell out.
Everybody started waking up as a crawled out of the cave. The sky was clear. It was cold but now frosty. The others were slowly emerging from their group shelters. Bags under there eyes and horrified but relieved looks on their faces. The night was over. We grouped up by 7.30 am and made a charge for the summit. Following the stream back to Llyn Gafr we edged around the lake and connected back with the Pony Path. My knee was throbbing. No amount of pills were going to help me now. I struggled on teeth clenched. Steve was kind enough to lend me one of his walking poles.
On we marched following the trailhead passed the caldron shaped lake
Llyn y Gadair and steadily made our way to the summit. As we came over the top we were bathed in beautiful sunshine. The top of Cadair Idris, marked by a summit post and legendary storm shelter, was a massive boost. The day was so clear you could see the amazing horseshoe of Snowdon to the North and to the West the stunning coastline and absolutely still Barmouth Bay. Not a wave in sight.
The mountains, rising straight from the sea, appearing from nowhere, was a sight to behold. The decent was a joy. By the end, coming down of off the west of the mountain, basked in glorious summer sunshine, I was completely dry throughout. I was ready for more.
Walking, slowly hobbling along with my crutch, I realised why I love the mountains so much. It is the challenge, the pain, the relief, the sense of freedom and the connection to an ancient way. Every mountain changes me, every experience a new one and every step a notch on my memory. I always feel humbled.
Peace,
Dan
The Montane Terra Trail pant has been designed for trekking, scrambling and walking. They are lightweight, breathable and hardwearing with knee and have reinforced material at the knee, seat (that’s rear end for you and me) and ankle. Using a tight weave of nylon (Tactel) the pants have comfortable cotton like feel that doesn’t crackle like a shell suit when you walk. 
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