Climbing Snowdon in the Footsteps of Ray

Here’s Ray again, the lad I came across when I was walking to Beddgelert to meet my sister Che.

Ray has spent his life climbing and hiking. He’s spent years in Nepal, Tibet, Bhutan, Peru, Bolivia and many other places. He’s worked as a guide and Ranger in Nepal, loves it there as much as I do but can’t get insurance for altitude trekking any more because he’s 85!

He’s got four girlfriends and calls them when he’s off somewhere to see if one of them wants to join him. He bitterly regretted being in hospital for 26 days being bombarded with radiation to destroy his cancer recently because he wanted to be climbing. Proper climbing.

He goes to Festivals in the summer and makes new friends.

Bye Ray.

My sis drove past me on the road. Her van had broken down earlier but after leaving it for ten minutes it started again. She was on her way to the campsite. She pitched the tent and then came back for me as I was still walking. What a sister.

A pleasant meal, a great night’s sleep and we spent the next day driving down to the coast at Porthmadog, having lunch, driving back, cooking an all day breakfast in the tent and having a great night’s sleep.

This morning Che drove me up to Pen y Pass, where I took the Pyg track to the top of Snowdon. Setting off the swirling cloud was wonderful. Looking down to Llanberis which I hiked out of two days ago.

The track climbs very quickly at first, amongst boulders and rocks. Clouds rush through the Pass and disappear.

I really like this shot. Down the pass with the lakes next to Llanberis in the background, snow spots top right and sunshine central.

The Pyg then seriously climbs up high and over a saddle to the left. And it wasn’t too long before snow covered the path.

I’ve bought some great walking crampons wot I took to Himalaya. And it was time to strap them to my boots. These big boys will stop me slipping off ice and snow down into the abyss.

You will have noticed that I am also wearing long, waterproof, insulated trousers. It’s too chuffing cold for shorts. The windchill is quite chilly. Even on these middle slopes the snow tends to inhabit the path. And it’s so rough either side of the path that you need to stick to it.

It took me three hours to reach the summit. But I did it. This photo emphasises my vast forehead. As well as the smile of achievement.

This next one shows the summit marker beside me. I’m happy because I’ve climbed the big three in Scotland, Wales and England, in that order.

There were a few folk venturing up Snowdon. It’s popular and I was able to follow footsteps in the snow. I’m not sure that any of the other mountains in Snowdonia will have the path defined for me. That’s my concern. But now I’m heading down. Without my crampons this would be a serious problem. Or maybe I’m getting soft.

These lads in front of me didn’t have crampons. Daft really. That drop is not far off a thousand feet.

The snow takes over swathes of Snowdon, with ice underneath. It’s not a pushover by any means.

I dropped to a level where I could take off my crampons.

And almost immediately took a tumble on slippery rocks. Head first and I banged my thigh on a rock. Clumsy old bastard. I laid there for five minutes checking if I’d hit my head or damaged my arms or ribs. Staying still and letting my pulse slow and breathing get back to normal.

Why am I such a clumping, falling, slipping, tripping tosser?

Don’t tell him Pike. The lake below appeared through the cloud.

And then there were two great photos on my way back to the car park where Che was waiting. Hooray!

Home to the tent and safe. Hooray!

Night night.