Mountain Misery

by Stephen R Drage

have to be used to once again build up the fuel pressure. I was always suspicious of this contraption, since the combination of combustible-liquid-under-pressure and a naked-flame-in-a-cloth-house seemed like a recipe for disaster. But Dad had faith in it, and was impressed with how cheap it was to run.

  As we bedded down for the night, a strong north wind picked up and drove away the fog. But with the wind came lower temperatures and the promise of a sharp frost. Despite our pleading and begging, Dad refused to sleep with the lamp on, and so we climbed fully clothed into our sleeping bags and shivered as the tent walls were assaulted by the gale outside. At least the overcast sky remained rain-free.

  We awoke the next morning to the patter of rain on the tent roof, but this was not going to dissuade my father from forcing us to partake in one of his fun-filled adventures. The cold had kept me awake for most of the night, and when I did manage to slip momentarily into drowsy semi-consciousness, it was marred by the cricket-ball-sized rock beneath my left shoulder blade.

  The sound of Dad coughing on his fourth cigarette interrupted the soft sprinkle of rain, and I stuck my head out of the tent flaps to survey the abysmal conditions. My ears had not deceived me. It was raining lightly from a low, gray unbroken-cloud-filled sky. Mum, holding an umbrella, was busy over a small gas stove preparing one of her famous one-pan breakfasts. Half the pan was dedicated to frying eggs, the other half shared by the bacon and potatoes. This was then served with the lion’s share, of course, going to Dad. Slices of bread were then thrown into the left-over fat to fry until crispy. Dad had already walked the mile and a half to the local farmhouse to scrounge enough milk for some tea.

  I was hoping today would be spent in rest, perhaps in a nearby town, if one existed. I thought it might be nice to slowly become accustomed to our new habitat and, if possible, sample some of the local fish and chips. But Dad had other plans. He had now lit another cigarette and paced a few yards from the camp so he could turn slowly through three hundred and sixty degrees, surveying the skyline. His eyes followed the line where the brown mountains met the sunless sky and finally turned to face us and happily announced that today we would climb “gwellyngogh.”

  We set off after breakfast, walking in the general direction of the unpronounceable peak. This was to be the main activity for the coming days. Traipsing up and down rocky hills that all looked alike. Dad seemed to thoroughly enjoy this pointless activity. The rest of us, however, found it hard to share his excitement, especially when we were accompanied by a constant drizzle of cold rain.

  Dad spent most of the time looking around and studying the surrounding countryside. Every now and then he would stop, point to a rocky crag and say something in Welsh. Mum would reply with a predictable, “Yes, I suppose it is dear”

  It was not long before we proved it was easy to get lost in these hills. Despite Dad’s constant attention to the compass and his frequent checking of a well-used map, we soon found ourselves on the shores of an uncharted frozen mountain lake. Even Dad’s hourly ritual of taking a bearing on the sun and logging the results in a little red notebook did not help.

  It took three hours to walk around the lake. After another two, which was broken only by a quick stop where we were afforded some refreshment by drinking from a dew-pond, we finally reached the summit. Mum and Pete and I collapsed in exhaustion while Dad pointed out each of the visible peaks and gave a short lecture about them in Welsh. When the breath had returned to our bodies and dizziness subsided, we had a very modest picnic lunch before embarking on the descent.

  It was an uneventful trip back to the tent, the only highlight occurring when Pete, attempting to do something stupid, slipped and slid several yards down a muddy hillside. He then had to traverse the rest of the way in filthy, wet trousers – walking as if he had spent too many hours on a horse.

  It was almost dark when we dragged ourselves back into camp. The rain had stopped, but the wind persisted. My parents reasoned that since it was Pete’s fault his trousers were soiled, it should be he who should clean them, I found this idea so funny that Dad ordered me to assist him by assuming the role of torch bearer. Pete was then given thirty seconds to change into his other pair of jeans while I looked for a flashlight that worked, then we were sent off into the darkness, down to the stream to wash the dirty clothing.

  I was actually thankful to be involved in this operation. Holding the light was easy, and allowed me a ringside seat to watch my brother repeatedly plunge his hands into the icy cold water as the trousers slowly returned to their original color. Because it had been a torturous day and I needed cheering up, the sight of Pete performing this most unpleasant of tasks lifted my spirits tremendously.

  At one point I was unable to contain my laughter, resulting in escalating hostilities that found fulfillment in a water-splashing fight. We were both wet and shivering when we returned to the tent, the soaking jeans were hung over a guy rope to dry, and we all went to bed for another nocturnal struggle against the elements.

  Dad allowed us to sleep late the next morning, so it was nearly six-thirty before we were shaken awake. Although the wind had dropped, there was a sharp frost on the ground and Pete's trousers were stuck to the guy rope, frozen stiff like plywood. We dressed to the smell of coffee and tobacco and the sizzling sound of the frying pan. Over a breakfast, identical to yesterday's, Dad revealed his master plan. We would climb another fairly easy peak today called “Abberglaghlly,” and tomorrow we would all experience the bliss of climbing “Snowdon.”

  Dad selected the subject of today’s torture from a map, announcing we would have to drive a short distance to arrive at the start of the path. Very, very carefully we drove across the field again and, after stopping to ask for directions – at a pub, two shops, and a post office – we reached our destination.

  Almost from the start Pete wanted to climb a different mountain, but my father’s will was stronger and Pete was forced, reluctantly, to tag along as he grumbled under his breath. It wasn't long before the path began to rise sharply, and we soon found ourselves out of breath and begging Dad to rest. Most mountains in North Wales have multiple ascent routes, allowing a challenge for both novices and experienced mountaineers alike. It soon became apparent that we had been directed to one of the more difficult paths. Of course, this didn't seem to bother Dad in the least, which made us all think it was deliberate on his part. At one point, when Pete suggested that if the path got any steeper, we would have to rope ourselves together, Dad became visibly excited and rubbed his fingers lovingly through the coils of rope he had thrown over his shoulder “just in case.”

  On and on we scrambled, sometimes on hands and knees because of the precarious narrow and steep path. Our route became steeper and steeper, and after a while it seemed the path had disappeared and we were making it up as we went along.

  To take our mind off whatever misery might be the order of the day, Dad would entertain us with an endless narrative on any subject from geology to watch repair, but sailing was his favorite. Today’s lesson was about navigation. Yesterday’s unnecessary excursion around a frozen lake was forgotten, for he now began to pontificate on the correct use of a compass and the importance of observation. He even managed to slip in a bit about maritime celestial navigation, which as Pete pointed out, could prove invaluable on top of a mountain. He was still lecturing on this subject when we at last crawled over the edge, onto a flat area at the top.

  We did the usual collapsing thing while Dad stood proudly basking in the victory of another successful ascent. He was busy with his usual Welsh discourse on the surrounding terrain, Mum was massaging her feet and I was laying face-down on the rock, about ready to vomit, when I heard Pete say, “That’s the rock we sat on yesterday!”

  Dad was quick to deny this, saying that while rocks did tend to look similar, only experienced mountain men like himself could easily tell them apart. Then I noticed another rock, which I had a very vivid memory of because I had tripped on it. Then, at almost the same
time, we all noticed the small indented stone containing the remnants of Dad’s old cigarette ends.

  The magic of the moment was lost, and Dad had to concede we had now climbed the same mountain twice in two days. All the way down he blamed the occupants of the various establishments where we had stopped to ask directions. Mum and I remained silent for fear of infuriating him, but Pete made several thoughtful comments to explain our possible mistake. He first suggested that perhaps Dad’s compass was defective. Agreeing with Pete’s assessment of the faulty instrument would have been a perfect way for Dad to save face, but he didn't do this, which caused Pete to question Dad’s skill at using the device. At this, Dad’s blood began to boil, and he threatened Pete with the usual variation of physical violence. Pete felt there was still some sport to be had here, and went on to theorize that if Dad had asked for directions in English he would have understood the answer better.

  Pete was in serious danger of reaching the bottom of the mountain well before the rest of us, and he knew it, so he spent the rest of the downward trip in silence.

  Tired, hungry and thirsty, we ultimately reached the roadside where we