The call to conquer Crib Goch

It was a cold and wet November morning in the stark, natural glamour of Snowdonia, which I ecstatically greeted after awakening to the grey-hued sunlight rudely invading my uncomfortable slumber in the back seat of my 2003 Ford Focus which I had pulled over at the side of a country road lay-by for the night. I’d prematurely quit my “prestigious” apprenticeship working for an offshore wind turbine company a few days prior, after feeling the fingers of mundanity and the false virtues of “being set for life” in a job I detested slowly strangle the last sense of adventure I felt in my day to day charade. I had no other job lined up and had little under £100 in my bank account on the day I set forth but I didn’t care. The only thing I had occupying my mind in those few glorious days of reckless abandon was conquering the 3000ft knife ridge known as Crib Goch.

The traverse is considered the hardest and most dangerous route on Mt Snowdon due to (as the term “knife ridge” so eloquently outlines) the exhilarating nature of the scrambling needed to be executed in order to conquer the ridge. With nought but 3000ft of air either side of you, there is small room for error and the traverse must be conducted precariously. The exposure is immense and captivating, (particularly for a UK route) and its hard to not fall under total awe of the stark beauty of the rolling landscape, even in unsavoury conditions, that this Goliath tightrope enraptures you with.

After studying the droplets of rain rolling down my windows I decided that not even the threat of being drenched nor feeing the cold harsh whip of the pre-winter winds could dampen the hunger that had driven me to this call for adventure. I needed this; more than I needed the security of a job. More than I needed what little money remained in my hour of uncertainty, and I unequivocally needed it more than the addictive and nihilistic, yet regrettably comfortable, “living for the weekend” lifestyle which I had found myself slipping into in lieu of my lack of direction. Even if going it alone and facing the the stark dangers of exposure, which this knife ridge presented me with, is what was needed, then so be it. I needed something to challenge me outside of the monotonous requirements that any kind of formal college education (which I knew I didn’t even want to pursue) could offer; I needed to conquer my own limitations of what I thought myself possible of doing, in the most extreme sense. I hadn’t even climbed the easier routes of Snowdon before (nor any other knife ridge for that matter) but I figured if it was overcoming adversity in the face of unrequited failure I was seeking, then simplicity for the sake of satisfactory safety be damned. I’d throw every ounce of effort I could call upon at this tenacious bastard of a rock.

After a quick (total emphasis on the word “quick”) morning dip in a mountain stream which was overflowing, due to the rain from the past couple of days, into a green meadow already blessed with the silvery damp of the days new dew, I had a small breakfast of coffee and peanut butter pancakes and set off to conquer the spectre of Snowdonia.

The BMC advise that making the traverse in wind speeds over 30mph was dangerous and inadvisable, the speed on that day based on my phones notoriously unreliable app was 32mph (I would later find out first hand and later confirmed with the aid of a more sophisticated app, it was closer to 40mph) yet this only stoked the flames within me to call upon  the future hero of myself that I envisioned within my mind to tackle this summoning head on.

After deviating to the right of the Pyg Track you behold the first sight of the ridge. In front of you is an almost vertical incline which would need to be scrambled up first, which is done easily enough with firm and protruding hand holds on offer, but the utmost attention is needed to prevent accidentally falling the long drop onto the rocks below. The cloud cover was totally unrelenting that day and upon ascending into the coverage to the top of the first scramble section, (which joins to the start of the actual ridge of the Goch) I began my journey on the knife edge through the mist.

The wind blew like a tempest that whole day, I was alone with the Gods on this titan of rock, but any fear I felt quicky gave way to elation, and elation held my hand into bliss. I was joyfully singing sacramental songs into the void as I went along, which the wind swiftly stole, and I felt the fulfilment of ecstasy within the hole in my soul.
Towards the end of the section, the Gods must have heard my cries of jubilation, for the clouds parted to give way to the sight of the hundreds of miles that surrounded the pinnacle and the sun shone down in sacred streaks across the land. Awe stole my breath and stopped me dead. I decided to sit down and enjoy this visitation for however long it lasted, and straddling the ridge, with one leg dangling over either side of the 3000ft drop, I exulted in the most harrowing coffee break I’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing. 

Hours later, after dancing with the peak by finishing the rest of the traverse and reaching the summit, I found myself sitting back in my car, totally exhausted but feeling an overwhelming sense that what I had just accomplished was of major significance for the health and reunion of my soul to my heart. It radically changed what I found most noble in life and turned me onto unapologetically pursuing that which I could not go a day without thinking about, all else be damned. I realised that courage is a prerequisite for paradise and your muse chooses you as much as you choose your muse, so you owe it the nobility of pursuit in exchange for that simple essence of offering the way out of meaninglessness direction it presents you with, its symbiosis in its most poetic form. 

I’ll finish with the enlightened insight of my hero and brother in arms Jack Kerouac; “In the end, you won’t remember the days spent in the office or mowing the lawn. Climb that goddamned mountain”


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