In 2008 two walkers came across some rubbish poking out of the snow heaped in the doorway of the summit café at around 7.45 a.m. Closer inspection revealed it wasn’t rubbish, it was a man – an unconscious 40-year-old who had climbed the mountain in trainers and a shirt, with not much else besides. Pinned to the mountain by bad weather, he had been forced to spend the night on the summit at −5°C and in 60 mph winds – which in combination reduced the effective temperature to a brass-monkey-killing −18°C. The walkers briskly placed him in all of their spare clothes and a survival bag, then scrambled the Llanberis Mountain Rescue Team. The man was taken down the mountain by the train, then to hospital by helicopter, where he was found to be suffering with hypothermia and severe frostbite to his feet. Without doubt the swift action of his rescuers saved his life. It was October.*
The Principality’s highest peak certainly hasn’t always been viewed as such a soft touch. Before the railway made its debut in 1896, Snowdon was considered a rather scary mountain. In Wild Wales, George Borrow’s dandyish 1862 meditation on the country, he quotes an old Welsh proverb: ‘“It’s easy to say yonder is Snowdon; but not so easy to ascend it.” Therefore I’d advise you to brace up your nerves and sinews for the attempt.’
And if Snowdon’s conditions are difficult to predict year-round, in winter they become hell for the unprepared, occasionally and unpredictably reaching near-Himalayan severity between November and February. Yet for some, even this has its perks. In the winter of 1952 the strange spectacle of a party of tall, rangy climbers could frequently be observed setting off up the slopes of Snowdon and the nearby Glyders whenever a poor forecast was issued, adorned with severe-looking equipment and long lengths of rope. Months later, in May 1953, members of the same team would make the historic first ascent of Mount Everest. For these men – which included John Hunt, Edmund Hillary and George Band – Snowdon galvanised preparations for the world’s highest peak, worthily testing their storm-gear and ice-climbing skills during some of the mountain’s shriller moments. It was a good choice: in winter snow and wind, Snowdon’s angles and ridges weren’t so far removed from the slopes of Everest as you might expect in terms of physicality, although obviously lacking the freezing, asphyxiating altitude. So attached were the team to the region, and so instrumental were the small but fierce peaks of Snowdonia in cementing the convivial bond of teamwork gained through shared hardship, that their annual reunion was held at the team’s old haunt, the Pen-y-Gwryd Hotel – less than a mile from where I now stood on the Bwlch y Moch. By 2003, however, the group’s numbers had dwindled to such a point that there was nobody in robust enough health to attend.
But even amidst such freezing peril, people think of the café and the train, and set off under-prepared up Snowdon’s slopes right into the bones of winter. Expecting good cheer, a cup of tea and an easy way off at the top, the unwary expend all their energy on the ascent and fail to realise that the summit is only half the effort. For your mind, the top is the finish line – the apex towards which all your concentration is directed. But for your body, it’s merely the halfway point. The physical and emotional crash of summiting, coupled with the underestimation of what a descent demands as your wits slowly unravel, are the reason why – on all mountains, everywhere, and by a considerable margin – most accidents occur on descent.
The light was softening, and cloud was quietly filling the valleys around me by the time I reached the path split beyond Bwlch y Moch. Onward: the Pyg Track, marked by a smart stile emblazoned with the path’s name in English and Welsh on sympathetic blue plastic. Right: a rough, steep path that ascended towards a tall, knobbly bulk. Immediately my pace dropped as the ground tilted and I felt the first pulls of grassy steepness beneath my boots. Within minutes, my choice of route had begun to assert its personality, the path zigzagging up the prow of increasingly defined mountainside. The next stile bore the words ‘Crib Goch’. This sign was signal red.
Around twenty minutes later, the ground started to steepen again. Then came the first naked rock on the ridge. It was aggressive-looking – many small flakes, angled skyward, like the spines of a balled hedgehog. I took hold of it. It was abrasive and eel-slick. Where the rock had weathered and crumbled to grout the spines it was a weak pink, a clue to the source of the translation of Crib Goch: literally ‘red ridge’. The path – such as it was – slinked vaguely amongst the outcrops, their ledges and flakes offering grab handles for balance where the path was too steep. Modest drops began to open to the left and right, until – about ten minutes from the stile – I could go no further.
In front of me was a large rock buttress, 40 or 50 metres wide. To carry straight on looked woundingly steep, but there were signs of a path on both sides of the obstacle – a thin, pink ribbon of scree draped over the rock. I took the one on the right, which vanished after a few metres at a series of mean-looking slabs. Traversing back beneath the buttress onto the left path, it began to wind beneath large, increasingly precarious overhangs that swiftly became awkward – like trying to limbo-dance under an eave. A potential way through lay up a narrow gully, but as I took hold of the rock and pulled, it became clear this was a move I wasn’t going to be able to reverse should it turn out to be a dead end. My right leg, jammed into a crack for purchase, began to shake.
This was ridiculous. Barely onto the ridge, I was already in trouble. Maybe it was my nerves making me indecisive. Maybe I’d taken a wrong turn and was on a path to nowhere. Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this at all.
Mal had told me to take the ridge on the nose at the first rock step; I hoped this wasn’t what he was talking about. I pulled out my phone and called up the map, zooming right in and peering at the little blue arrow that represented me, frantically changing direction, mirroring my movements. According to this the path climbed Crib Goch just to the right of the ridge’s crest – a few metres from where I was now standing. I’d tried that, and it hadn’t felt right. Clicking the map off, I looked around my little ledge. On a ridge like this, it was pointless trying to follow the map with microscopic faith. I needed to feel my way up.
Gingerly, I began to descend the way I’d come. Reaching a broad, grassy bower below the buttress, I took a step back and studied the rock face. Head on, it certainly appeared possible. Big holds, large cracks to wedge parts of my body into – there were plenty of things to grab onto and hang off, but I still didn’t like it. From the looks of things, that was pretty much how this ridge was going to go: physically doable, but requiring a certain mental commitment. I leaned against the cold, briny-smelling rock. Standing there, running through the consequences of a mishandled traverse in my head, thinking of home and headlines, family messily sobbing unanswerable ‘why’ questions … this wasn’t doing anything. What the hell was stopping me here: the intimidation of the route itself, or my own horror-story-driven fear?
Using a flake of rock, I pulled myself off my feet as if peeping over a wall. The rock ahead ascended steeply, but it was broken, full of holds. I could climb that. Could probably climb down it, too. All it took was a decision.
A breath, then I pulled myself onto the step. A surge of adrenaline hit my legs as I lumbered up the first six feet of the rock. Don’t fall. Stay confident. This was it: I was on Crib Goch. Up or bust.
It felt good to have made a decision. Right or wrong, it didn’t matter now. As I climbed, my hands and feet finding holds easily, a tentative confidence grew – a kind of pragmatic resignation to the simple job in hand, which now simply had to be done. I could sense a drop opening to the right; I ignored it, keeping my movements as smooth