Winter sun, snow and mountains
Are you sitting comfortably? Good. Because I have an embarrassing confession to make and one that I’ve not revealed to anybody before. Deep breath. Ok, here goes...
All the reasons you need to head to the Brecon Beacons when the temperature drops.
Iam a virgin.
Yes, somewhat shamefully, at the ripened age of 25, I have just simply never got around to doing it. It’s not that I have never had the lust for it or failed to see its appeal, I just haven’t found the right opportunity. And also, given it’s not really an activity one would do for the first time by oneself, I have just never found the right person (or people) to do it with. So, there it is; I have yet to climb a mountain in winter. I am a cherubic maiden to winter hillwalking.
Or at least I was. And so, with that red-faced admission out of the way, I’d like to share how I finally came to break my snowy mountain-sized duck on a stunning two-day Brecon-fest.
The location for my very first winter hill climb was to be Table Mountain in the Brecon Beacons. Table Mountain, or Crug Hywel as it is in Welsh, represents a relatively gentle ascent in fair conditions – after all, the plateau summit stands at just 451m. Yet, when sheathed in snow and ice, it should make an ideal testing ground for a first wintry hill assault.
After five butt-numbing hours in the car, we – colleagues Tom and Jenna and I – finally reached the town of Crickhowell where our two-day venture would begin. Nearly the entire country had been bludgeoned with major snowfall just days earlier after
“I HAVE YET TO CLIMB A MOUNTAIN IN WINTER. I AM A CHERUBIC MAIDEN TO WINTER HILLWALKING”
the arrival of an Arctic weather front. It should have come as no surprise then, that upon abandoning the car I was met by a stern, icy wind that slapped my face so hard it made me cry. The involuntary teardrops must have frozen immediately on my cheeks thanks to the gales’ subzero temperatures. The sky, meanwhile, was painted an uninviting shade of grey and no sooner had we slung our rucksacks over our shoulders it started to rain. All in all, there wasn’t actually a great deal to enthuse about.
Nonetheless, we strode off undeterred and soon joined the Beacons Way footpath, which shadowed Cumbeth Brook upstream. The path climbed and weaved through a charming wooded valley, where canopies of huge oak trees protected us from the elements. Then, just 10 minutes into the walk, I realised my first winter walking error. In trying to heed the conditions, I had thrown on umpteen layers and lo and behold, looking as plump as the Michelin Man, had duly begun to boil. “Next time, be bold and start cold,” were Tom’s sage words, “otherwise you will quickly overheat, work up a sweat, get sopping wet and then get cold once you stop.”
1 TABLE MOUNTAIN
De-layered, and with my first lesson behind me, we eventually deviated from the sheltered woodland into adjacent fields. The rain had turned to sleet and through the mist a snow-dappled Table Mountain grew into view.
As we determined upwards, fighting a constant battle against the rain and wind, the snow underfoot became gradually thicker and each step required more effort than the last. Though a combination of trekking poles and a pair of sturdy 4-season boots provided welcome support and sure-footed confidence.
We passed a small flock of hardy mountain sheep. Each animal lifted its head, halted its rumination of sodden grass mid-chew and stared at us bewildered, as if to say ‘why on Earth are you up here today, in this weather, out of choice?’ Indeed, as well as the entire contents of every cloud being dumped upon us, the wind chill had become severe. I pushed my woolly hat down my brow and hoiked my neck tube over my nose to buffer the angry weather. I realise at this point it may sound as though I was enduring the most horrendously uncomfortable experience thinkable. And that was at least partially true. But in actual fact I was loving every minute! Being out in the hills and fully exposed to such arduous conditions, yet being suitably outfitted to repel the elements, engendered a very real sense of feeling alive.
Despite some sluggish progress we eventually found ourselves on the high point of Table Mountain when, miraculously, from behind the moodiest of clouds, a glorious sunshine unveiled itself. Having sustained such miserable weather from the instant of leaving the car to this moment, the emergence of this brilliant yellow bulb in the sky seemed almost divine.
Keen to make the most of this fortuitous window of winter sun, we scrambled to Table Mountain’s plateaued summit to absorb an arresting panorama across the Black Mountains range. These conditions, where a watery blue sky kisses a pure white snowy terrain, are surely the best imaginable.
Eventually, we pulled ourselves away from the levelled apex – which, incidentally, bares the remnants of an Iron Age Celtic hillfort – and strode off toward sister hill Pen Cerrig-calch. From our current position, this would equate to a further 250m of gradual climbing. This may sound a paltry exercise but tramping through ankle-deep snow requires double the effort than walking on turf or rock. Even more so when,
on any given step, you are susceptible to disappearing up to your waist into powdery mounds of snowdrift that masquerades as the hard packed, firm stuff.
Having hauled myself, and my dignity, from maybe the tenth of these pitfalls my companions could barely hide their snickering, so it was a relief to reach the relative sanctum of Pen Cerrig-calch’s 701m trig pillar. We claimed refuge from the ever-fierce winds in a circular stone shelter and took the chance to tuck into our packed lunches. As the sunshine happily persisted, I wallowed in the exquisite views and was filled with an ironically warm glow of reward. Our earlier perseverance through the winter grim seemed very much worth it now.
The burning sun had already begun to recede as we made our descent back to Crickhowell. By the time we reached the wooded valley by Cumbeth Brook we were in total darkness with just the light from our headtorches to guide us to the car.
2 PEN Y FAN
After a sound night’s sleep, I peeled back the curtains the next morning to find a cloudy sky punctuated with large patches of blue and a sun that was doing its best to re-emerge. If yesterday was a gentle introduction to winter hillwalking, today was set to be a tougher test as we headed for the twin peaks of Pen y Fan and Corn Du. Being the highest British summit south of Cadair Idris, the 886m Pen y Fan was a mountain I’d long hoped to bag but had evaded me up to now.
It was a crisp winter’s day on stepping out of the car at the Storey Arms Centre. The chill in the air might have had a more vicious bite than yesterday, but thankfully the rain or snow were detained in the clouds – for now. Our circular route would take us first over Corn Du and we approached the mountain via a footpath that climbed east and eventually intersected the Blaen Taf Fawr river. With each step from here, the flat-topped Corn Du and its lipped edge gradually grew from the horizon. Once we reached Craig Cwm Llwch, Corn Du’s north face, with the glacial lake of Llyn Cwm Llwch a
sheer 300m drop to our left, the wind had picked up and snow had begun to descend. Seasoned mountain man Tom suggested it was high time to pull the axe from the flank of my rucksack. I had been primed already on how to correctly carry the axe (in my uphill hand, with the pick facing backwards) and instructions for performing a self-arrest should I lose my footing. I rehearsed this manoeuvre in safety now. Taking these tools out on the hill is one thing, I was told – but having the know-how to use them properly is another. And given the sharp precipice that was just a few metres to my left, I was acutely aware of the gravity of this advice.
Little by little we ascended towards our goal and with steely concentration I kicked heavy steps into the snow, driving the knife-like
edges of my boot into the frozen ground. Progress was gained by the inch, but the final metres of our assault on Corn Du’s summit were completed with unexpected ease as the brutish tailwinds effectively hurled us to the top. We didn’t hang around for long though. We couldn’t. The whirling gusts prompted us on to the looming Pen y Fan whether we liked it or not.
The path on the col between the two mountains was icy and while the terrain was not so treacherous as to warrant fixing crampons, we passed a lone walker who was struggling in a pair of trail shoes. It provided all the evidence necessary that in winter, gear matters.
We wrestled the gales and proceeded slowly along the col before a final push landed us on the summit. It was brutally wild and gnarly up here. The place raged with blinding sheets of snow that lashed out with fury from all directions. Reaching the trig point felt as euphoric as it did relieving – just to have something stable to lean against. Attempting to unfurl our mountain shelter on the summit plateau was like trying to make origami in a wind tunnel. We struggled pathetically against the wind, which violently tugged at the fabrics and threatened to turn the whole thing into a parachute. Eventually, we were able to haul the shelter over us and huddle inside.
As we hunkered down in the confined space, our knees pinned up tightly to our chests, I could feel windburn on my face, numbed toes inside my boots and not much from within my gloves. I was more than slightly cold, hungry and not in the slightest bit comfortable and I thought to myself: ‘why?’. Why is it people willingly clamber up mountainsides in such hostile conditions? Why do we push ourselves to our absolute limits in the name of a hobby? Why do we pursue Mother Nature’s punishment and wrath? And why is it – as I received another bash to the ear from the shelter’s wall – that I’m having the time of my life?
The answer, I think, is in our instinct for adventure. An explicit impulsion to push our boundaries and escape our comfort zones. A compulsive addiction to that frisson of adrenaline. With greater risk comes greater reward and it’s true that dicing with mountains in winter is no laughing matter. It is a pastime that, in the worst-case scenarios, can have dreadful if not fatal consequences. Yet, equipped with the correct skills and knowhow, walking hills in winter is a pursuit like no other.
They say you will want your first time to be special. And my maiden foray into winter hillwalking in the Brecon Beacons has undoubtedly left me yearning for more.
“IT PROVIDED ALL THE EVIDENCE NECESSARY THAT IN WINTER, GEAR MATTERS”