A site dedicated to Snowdonia in northwest Wales just informed me ‘The Watkin Path starts nearest to sea level and so has more ascent than any other direct route up Snowdon.’ This hill, formation, mountain, whatever its proper designation is, stands at over 1000 metres tall. The path itself is a winding succession of dirt and rocks, some sections tightly packed and aligned as steps, others loose, jagged, and hazardous. Its gradient steepens steadily for most of the journey then harshly at the end, so that your capacity to continue and your determination to do so are increasingly dampened the higher you go. If I had known all of that before I started the climb I might have reconsidered attempting it.
Anticipation for the climb did not fill the car until we neared the end of our three hour drive. Up to then there had been little doubt between the four of us regarding our ability to reach the summit of Yr Wyddfa, or Snowdon, as we English call it. As the various peaks of Snowdonia National Park neared the windscreen, coming to loom over us even from a distance, I felt a realisation strike all of us at the same time. One of the group woke from his intermittent napping while we passed these intimidating rock faces. “What were we thinking?” he giggled, before closing his eyes again.
The high steps that begin Watkin Path brought an unwelcome, unexpected strain to my legs, and I knew instantly the hours ahead would be difficult. I had a much bigger bag than the others but from what I can recall, only my waterproofs went unused as it was an unseasonably clear and warm day for late September. The hill was just that steep. Only a few minutes passed before I stopped to remove two layers; a body-warmer and hoodie. I marched on in a long-sleeved thermal and t-shirt, sweating heavily, feeling my heart pump hard with every breath. It was an arduous start, and characteristic of the route ahead of us.
To describe the scenery that opened around us would be to do it a disservice. I lack the vocabulary, and that brand of gushing sentimentality that lends itself so well to dense descriptions of beautiful places. It was big, green, and rocky. And there were waterfalls, a river, and lots of other walkers wearing assorted uniforms of lycra and wool.
The ascent proper began with a section of stone steps winding through two or three high slag heaps. At least, I think there were two or three. There was the remainder of a brick structure nearby as well. Perhaps I’m conflating that with the heaps. The reason I can’t recall exactly is likely because my hips, thighs, and calves were beginning to pump lava. It was while traversing this section one of our group had his first wobble. He took a seat on some stones and said he would catch up. Unlikely, given he was already struggling. Soon after he told the rest of us he wanted to quit. We managed to motivate him to continue on through several similar moments of self-doubt before he removed himself from the climb altogether and returned to the car park. I’d say from that point on, roughly halfway up, we were going steeply upward most of the time.
The higher we climbed the more empathy I gained for the one we left behind. Because that final thrust to the top, that rocky, dirty, almost vertical final portion of the path made me want to quit after every ten steps. I know that because I took to counting my steps to distract myself from my own exhaustion. Breathing became this conscious, controlled process, with every molecule of oxygen fuelling my forward momentum. As our labour increased so did the frequency of our breaks. The three of us would lean and sit in tiny rock coves that offered more relief than the most expensive bed I’ve ever slept in, before standing up and trudging on. The final push was grim. In fact I think it sapped me so much that I failed to properly take in the views from the summit. I was overwhelmed with relief and wanted only to sit down and eat some couscous and mackerel.
Soon enough we were going back the way we’d come, my quadriceps and knees taking the brunt of my weight on the downward slope. Soon my legs were shaking violently between steps. I couldn’t be certain of where each foot was going to land when I flung it forward. I stumbled a lot on the way down but gravity, and the knowledge I would soon be sitting in a Vauxhall Zafira driving home, gave me enough to help sustain my effort. My water and food were all gone by then so my bag was lighter than it had been all day. When we made it back to the car park to find the abandoned one smiling and waiting I felt quite emotional. I was exhausted. Relieved. Somewhat proud.
The next three hours in the passenger seat flashed by. A sense of tranquility, serenity, came over me in my tiredness. I certainly didn’t feel normal. By the time we reached home I scrapped my idea to cycle home from the driver’s house and asked instead to be left at my front door. I may have been feeling peaceful but there was nothing left in my legs. I hobbled to the door, put my pyjamas on, ate a packet of biscuits, and fell asleep without showering.
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