I have to be careful here. I'm aware that there's something of setting an example at stake, and all hasn't been, er, quite as it should have been. But I'm not quite apologising, either.
It started a couple of weeks ago, with Jack hinting at doing a sponsored walk. Snowdon was "one option". One day I'll explain about Enneagram types and why righteousness matters so. "If you're thinking of climbing Snowdon, I'd like to go." I decided to tackle fire with fire. "What have you got in mind?" I braced myself for inflation. "Andrzej wants to come." It is in the nature of the apostolic to die between two criminals.
Of course, it was Jack's birthday coming up on Friday; and school holidays, so that would include Titus. Then, inexplicably, we needed to take two vehicles. Then, equally suddenly, there was the prospect of some camping overnight beforehand. Like I said, inflation.
Last time I climbed Snowdon I was 21. I did it twice in two weeks, as an officer in a boys' camp based in Anglesey. We always stuck to the Watkin Path up, and the Pyg Track or Miners Track coming down. A decrepit local hire coach would come round from the Beddgelet Road to the Llanberis Road to pick us up.
We settled for the Rhyd-Ddu Path. My SatNav (or, in Cymric, SatNaf), said 3 hours 20 minutes drive. "We'll need to be on the mountain by 8.00am," Jack instructed. I've never before got up at 3.00am. 4.00am or 4.30am to catch a flight, yes. But I intended us to be away at 4.00am, and there were bacon rolls to heat up in the microwave ready for when we stopped for breakfast. And untold goodness-knows-what may await us on M56 and the North Wales coastal route.
Viv's conversation faded out after an hour. When, just after 6.00am, I stopped for petrol nor far short of Conwy, no-one stirred. Breakfast would have to wait. I'm sure I went through two sets of speed cameras at roadworks. The mountains looked like huge Stollen cakes. The still lakes offered awesome reflections. Mist trailed from Snowdon's peak, but we hoped the weather would continue to brighten. The van appeared and Jack and team tumbled out. They hadn't bothered to pitch a tent, just crashed out in the vehicle.
After half an hour, my phone popped up a signal. I told Mary where we'd got to. "Really you should let the Mountain Rescue people know your plans." "Yes, dear." But no.
About halfway up we hit mist, which then turned to rain. We togged up in waterproofs. Lying snow extended up the path. At one gate we stepped down from the drift to climb over. It was getting to be hard going. Every other step produced slips, or sinking through the harder crust. "I just want some forward traction!" I shouted to no-one in particular. At points we weren't exactly sure of the path, despite the frequent cairns and a sporadic trail of earlier footprints.
The Bwlch Main ridge loomed. "I can't believe we've got to go along there," I muttered. But we did. Now slips and sinking were serious, not just slowing. I was jerked from my self-preoccupation by Titus up at my heels. He couldn't resist speeding up as we came to any temporary descent, but took my warnings attentively. We criss-crossed over from one side of the ridge to other to find the most manageable route.
Then, the marker stone appeared where the Watkin Path merges in. And without warning, out of the gloom ahead, the Visitor Centre. Is it intentionally reminiscent of Noah's ark? Elation made the last few yards a pleasure. Solid drifted snow extended up to the Centre roof. No cup of tea, then. We carefully picked our way up the ice-coated steps to the summit trig-point for a photo.
We sank back behind the Centre wall and de-briefed. We'd all found it pretty scary. We agreed that if the weather had been colder, or windier, or snow had started falling, we'd have called a halt. We'd stick together for the descent. We found sliding down some drifts as useful as trying to pick our way by foot.
Viv was out in front when we realised we hadn't found the main path. For a minute it was grim. Jack fumbled for a map and announced we'd inadvertently diverted to the alternative South Ridge route. That's alright then. We trudged on to the final steep decent and emerged from under the cloud blanket. Glorious views all around. Exhilaration.
We were back in the car park by 3.30pm, and gratefully topped up with hot drinks. On Sunday, AJ emailed me a BBC News link. Three climbers were rescued by helicopter off Crib Goch. "Was that you?" Hmmm. It could easily have been. Good birthday, Jack?
It started a couple of weeks ago, with Jack hinting at doing a sponsored walk. Snowdon was "one option". One day I'll explain about Enneagram types and why righteousness matters so. "If you're thinking of climbing Snowdon, I'd like to go." I decided to tackle fire with fire. "What have you got in mind?" I braced myself for inflation. "Andrzej wants to come." It is in the nature of the apostolic to die between two criminals.
Last time I climbed Snowdon I was 21. I did it twice in two weeks, as an officer in a boys' camp based in Anglesey. We always stuck to the Watkin Path up, and the Pyg Track or Miners Track coming down. A decrepit local hire coach would come round from the Beddgelet Road to the Llanberis Road to pick us up.
We settled for the Rhyd-Ddu Path. My SatNav (or, in Cymric, SatNaf), said 3 hours 20 minutes drive. "We'll need to be on the mountain by 8.00am," Jack instructed. I've never before got up at 3.00am. 4.00am or 4.30am to catch a flight, yes. But I intended us to be away at 4.00am, and there were bacon rolls to heat up in the microwave ready for when we stopped for breakfast. And untold goodness-knows-what may await us on M56 and the North Wales coastal route.
Viv's conversation faded out after an hour. When, just after 6.00am, I stopped for petrol nor far short of Conwy, no-one stirred. Breakfast would have to wait. I'm sure I went through two sets of speed cameras at roadworks. The mountains looked like huge Stollen cakes. The still lakes offered awesome reflections. Mist trailed from Snowdon's peak, but we hoped the weather would continue to brighten. The van appeared and Jack and team tumbled out. They hadn't bothered to pitch a tent, just crashed out in the vehicle.
After half an hour, my phone popped up a signal. I told Mary where we'd got to. "Really you should let the Mountain Rescue people know your plans." "Yes, dear." But no.
About halfway up we hit mist, which then turned to rain. We togged up in waterproofs. Lying snow extended up the path. At one gate we stepped down from the drift to climb over. It was getting to be hard going. Every other step produced slips, or sinking through the harder crust. "I just want some forward traction!" I shouted to no-one in particular. At points we weren't exactly sure of the path, despite the frequent cairns and a sporadic trail of earlier footprints.
The Bwlch Main ridge loomed. "I can't believe we've got to go along there," I muttered. But we did. Now slips and sinking were serious, not just slowing. I was jerked from my self-preoccupation by Titus up at my heels. He couldn't resist speeding up as we came to any temporary descent, but took my warnings attentively. We criss-crossed over from one side of the ridge to other to find the most manageable route.
Then, the marker stone appeared where the Watkin Path merges in. And without warning, out of the gloom ahead, the Visitor Centre. Is it intentionally reminiscent of Noah's ark? Elation made the last few yards a pleasure. Solid drifted snow extended up to the Centre roof. No cup of tea, then. We carefully picked our way up the ice-coated steps to the summit trig-point for a photo. We sank back behind the Centre wall and de-briefed. We'd all found it pretty scary. We agreed that if the weather had been colder, or windier, or snow had started falling, we'd have called a halt. We'd stick together for the descent. We found sliding down some drifts as useful as trying to pick our way by foot.
We were back in the car park by 3.30pm, and gratefully topped up with hot drinks. On Sunday, AJ emailed me a BBC News link. Three climbers were rescued by helicopter off Crib Goch. "Was that you?" Hmmm. It could easily have been. Good birthday, Jack?
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