the base of the mountain, Dad ordered everyone out of the car, we realized it was not going to be that easy.
Within minutes of commencing the tribulation, all of us had developed personalized complaints. With Mum it was “shooting pains in her legs,” and she soon developed a limp to accompany her grumbling. My problem was a series of painful foot blisters that also caused me to adopt an unorthodox walking style. Pete was most concerned with the appearance of his replacement trousers. One thing we all had in common was the atrocious hunger, but Dad reminded us that on the top of the mountain was the cafe.
After the endless string of disappointments I had suffered, I dared not let myself anticipate that this would be a solution. I felt sure that even if we were on the right mountain, when and if we arrived at the summit the cafe would be knocked down, closed for repairs or suffering a power outage. The hunger continued, and it became so intense I would have willingly fought Big Gina Rolonzio to the death for the joy of once again savoring the vile flavor of a “Climbers Lunch” bar. I was beginning to wonder what gravel tasted like.
Pete straggled behind as we continued to traverse every form of inhospitable terrain known to man. The walk was, without doubt, the longest and hardest yet and it pushed us to new limits of pain and desperation. The weather got colder, windier and wetter.
As we approached our lofty destination, we became surrounded by clouds, which made us question the reality of the post-card-views that my father had been promising for the last three thousand feet. The clouds were so thick that we arrived at the summit without knowing it, the only clue being all paths converged and them began to descend.
To our joy and astonishment, the cafe was open. The heating inside was broken, but we were so consumed with hunger and the expectation of a full belly that we took little notice. We had a glorious meal of egg and chips, and everyone slowly began to relax and unwind. Dad was now happy. He had accomplished what he said was a “lifelong” dream, and had even found a local man with whom to speak Welsh. We had refused to converse with Dad days ago and he had to resort to talking to sheep, so this was a welcome change.
Because of the thick fog there was really nothing to see and we were enthusiastic to head back to the car and be done with this horrible trek, but Dad felt a few words were in order on the momentous occasion and began one of his lectures. We were forced to stand and listen to him, stamping our feet and rubbing our hands together to keep warm, while he droned on about this being a serious climb beyond the capabilities of most mortals. Pete was not listening. Instead, he fixed his gaze on an area not far away, where the clouds had lifted for a moment, and he had seen a small building. Interrupting Dad’s speech to inquire what it was, Dad explained that it was just the train station.
“A train?” said Pete, and we all turned to look with eyes wide and jaws agape.
“There was a train?” I said with an incredulous tone.
We all stood in silent disbelief.
“We could have come up here on a train?” said Mum with a look as cold as the icy winds that ravaged us.
Dad completely missed the point.
From the warmth and comfort of the railway carriage, we watched through the window as Dad made off down the mountain path. It really was a most pleasant trip. We arrived at the car several hours before he did.
Once again we piled into the car, this time homeward bound. And the sun came out.
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Mountain Misery Page 6