“I’m struck by the dichotomy between the stillness of the weather and the wildness of the mountains.”
the Rhinogs range morphs into something spectacularly different. From the northern ramparts of Rhinog Fawr to the fortress of Rhinog Fach and beyond to Y Llethr’s shattered ridges, it is a world of rock: rough, wild, isolated, and unapologetically arduous. The kind of place that swallows naive hillwalkers, chews them up, and then unceremoniously spits them back out. Many a hiker has been left humbled by the Rhinogs.
That’s certainly how Ben feels, struggling under the weight of his humongous backpack as we find ourselves edging down the scree-filled gully on Rhinog Fawr. The past few hours have dragged by, every 100m feeling like a mile, every minute lasting an hour, the ascent of Fawr an eternity of heather bashing and boulder hopping. The weather hasn’t helped: drizzle coats every rock with a slimy film, and the thick cloud pressing around us necessitates regular glances at the map.
“I can’t believe it – the cloud is clearing,” I say as we stop for a much-needed rest at the green haven of Bwlch Drws-Ardudwy between Fawr and Fach. Like a veil being lifted, the clag slowly dissipates and recedes, revealing the Rhinogs in all their rugged beauty. Our moods follow suit, buoyed by the improving
conditions and fleeting glimpses of sunshine, and there’s a renewed energy to our movement as we head south past Llyn Cwmhosan and power uphill to Llyn Hywel to set up camp.
STILL IN THE THICK OF IT
The following morning I wake early, reluctantly slide out of the cosy cocoon of my sleeping bag, unzip my tent to the outside world, and go for a dawn wander.
I feel like the only human on Earth, an explorer in a lost world, a hermit in a secret hideaway. Everything is so still and serene. There isn’t a breath of wind and the air is pleasantly warm, despite the early hour. I can’t see any sign of humanity bar my tent. Llyn Hywel has a glossy sheen, perfectly flat and calm except for the mesmerising concentric rings created by a fish breaking the surface. Purple heather glows in the morning light, and yellowy lichens glimmer on boulders.
I’m struck by the dichotomy between the stillness of the weather and the wildness of the mountains. The tarn is encircled on three sides by unrestrained, tousled rock scenery. To the east a giant slab of scarred rock plunges into the water. To the south
Y Llethr’s vertebrae and lava-like scree fountains defend the tarn; to the north, Rhinog Fach towers like an unconquerable citadel.
It’s no idyllic, postcard-perfect scene. These lands are rough around the edges, crude and coarse – but that serves only to heighten the sense of isolation and adventure.
“Does it get any easier?” Ben asks as we scramble over steep terrain towards Rhinog Fach following a rushed breakfast and a quick de-camp. I explain that beyond Y Llethr the rock and heather relent, giving way to rounded, grassy slopes – the final 15km over Crib-y-rhiw, Diffwys, and then the agricultural foothills down to the Barmouth coast should be far simpler. But for the next hour or two we’re still in the thick of it. “Someone needs to re-measure this mountain,” I reply, “because there is no way it is only 712m high.”
Heavy-legged and still bleary-eyed, we arrive at the cairned summit. Striated waves of hazy Snowdonian mountains stretch out on one side, like pleats across the landscape; on the other, the Llŷn Peninsula – shaped like cradling arms – holds Tremadog Bay in a tender embrace. I’m somewhere inbetween, a wanderer exploring this forgotten hinterland, roaming in the place between the sea and the high summits.
Venturing off-grid into wild and uncompromising landscapes is a magical experience. It amplifies the sense of adventure and isolation tenfold, but it also amplifies your vulnerability. Help is far away, escape routes are infrequent, resupplying requires a lengthy detour, and the consequences of a simple error could be serious. That’s why it’s essential to pack reliable gear that won’t let you down.
For my Rhinogydd Traverse I exclusively used Exped’s camping gear, including a one-person tent, sleeping bag, sleeping mat, inflatable pillow, backpack and dry-bags. Why? Because the Swiss brand’s premium, highly refined products strike a sweet spot: light enough to carry on your back, but strong enough to cope with rough terrain and even rougher weather. With the Exped kit in my backpack, I felt confident I’d stay warm, dry, and sufficiently protected no matter what the Rhinogs threw at me.
Finding that sweet spot is a very tricky balancing act. Riskaverse wild campers often pack heavy, opting for the peace of mind that comes with carrying warm, strong and sturdy kit. But such an approach can result in an excessively weighty load, laden with four-season tents, thick sleeping bags and a myriad of spare clothes. On the other end of the spectrum, ultralight minimalists pack only the bare essentials – a strategy that frees them to travel light and fast through the mountains, unburdened by a heavy load. But come night-time, their levels of comfort, warmth and protection are likely to be compromised.
Exped has gear that caters for both of these specialist approaches, but for most wild campers a sensible tactic is to aim for the middle ground between these two extremes. And the Swiss brand also has excellent gear that caters for this happy medium - kit that's as light as it can possibly be, without compromising in-field performance.