_SNOWDON IN WINTER._
Tainted by the city air, and with gases not natural even to the
atmosphere of London, I gladly chimed in with the proposal of an
experienced friend to live four clear days at Christmas on Welsh mutton
and mountain air. On the evening of the 26th of December 1860 Mr. Busk,
Mr. Huxley, and I found ourselves at the Penryhn Arms Hotel in Bangor.
Next morning we started betimes. The wind had howled angrily during
the night. It now swept over the frozen road, carrying the looser snow
along with it, shooting the crystals with projectile force against our
faces, and compelling us to lean forward at a considerable angle to
keep upon our feet. Our destination was Capel Curig, with a prospective
design upon Snowdon; but we had no bâtons fit for the ascent. At
Bethesda, however, after many vain enquiries in Welsh and English about
walking-sticks, we found a shop which embraced among its multitudinous
contents a sheaf of rake-handles. Two of these we purchased at
fourpence each, and had them afterwards furnished with rings and iron
spikes, at the total cost of one shilling. Thus provided, we hoped that
‘old Snowdon’s craggy chaos’ might be invaded with a hope of success.
On the morning of the 28th we issued from our hotel. A pale blue,
dashed with ochre, and blending to a most delicate green, overspread a
portion of the eastern sky. Grey cumuli, tinged ruddily here and there
as they caught the morning light, swung aloft, but melted more and more
as the day advanced. The eastern mountains were all thickly covered
with newly fallen snow. The effect was unspeakably lovely. In front of
us was Snowdon; over it and behind it the atmosphere was closely packed
with dense brown haze, the lower filaments of which reached almost
half-way down the mountain, but still left all its outline clearly
visible through the attenuated fog. No ray of sunlight fell upon the
hill, and the face which it turned towards us, too steep to hold the
snow, exhibited a precipitous slope of rock, faintly tinted by the
blue grey of its icy enamel. Below us was Llyn Mymbyr, a frozen plain;
behind us the hills were flooded with sunlight, and here and there from
the shaded slopes, which were illuminated chiefly by the light of the
firmament, shimmered a most delicate blue.
This beautiful effect deserves a word of notice; many doubtless have
observed it during the late snow. Ten days ago, in driving from
Kirtlington to Glympton, the window of my cab became partially opaque
by the condensation of the vapour of respiration. With the finger-ends
little apertures were made in the coating, and when viewed through
these the snow-covered landscape flashed incessantly with blue gleams.
They rose from the shadows of objects along the road, which shadows
were illuminated by the light of the sky. The blue light is best seen
when the eye is in motion, thus causing the images of the shadows to
pass over different parts of the retina. The whole shadow of a tree
may thus be seen with stem and branches of the most delicate blue.
I have seen similar effects upon the fresh _névés_ of the Alps, the
shadow being that of the human body looked at through an aperture in a
handkerchief thrown over the face. The same splendid effect was once
exhibited in a manner never to be forgotten by those who witnessed it,
on the sudden opening of a tent-door at sunrise on the summit of Mont
Blanc.
At Pen-y-Gwrid Busk halted, purposing to descend to Llanberis by the
road, while Huxley and I went forward to the small public-house known
as Pen Pass. Here our guide, Robert Hughes, a powerful but elderly
man, refreshed himself, and we quitted the road and proceeded for a
short distance along a car-track which seemed to wind round a spur of
Snowdon. ‘Is there no shorter way up?’ we demanded. ‘Yes; but I fear it
is now impracticable,’ was the reply. ‘Go straight on,’ said Huxley,
‘and do not fear us.’
Up the man went with a spurt, suddenly putting on all his steam. The
whisky of Pen Pass had given him a flash of energy, which we well
knew could not last. In fact, the guide, though he acquitted himself
admirably during the day, had at first no notion that we should reach
the summit; and this made him careless of preserving himself at the
outset. Toning him down a little, we went forward at a calmer pace.
Crossing the spur, we came upon a pony-track on the opposite side. It
was rendered conspicuous by the unbroken layer of snow which rested on
it. Huxley took the lead, wading knee-deep for nearly an hour.
I, wishing to escape this labour, climbed the slopes to the right,
and sought a way over the less loaded bosses of the mountain. On our
remarking to Hughes that he had never assailed Snowdon under such
conditions, he replied that he had, and under worse. The 12th of April
last, he affirmed, was a worse day, and he had led a lady on that day
almost to the summit. Unluckily for him, there was a smack of ‘bounce’
in the reply. It caused us to conclude that the same energy which had
led the lady could lead us, and hence, when Huxley fell back, the
guide was sent to the front, to break the way. He did this manfully for
nearly an hour, at the end of which he seemed very jaded, and as he sat
resting on a corner of rock I asked him whether he was tired. ‘I am,’
was his reply. Huxley gave him a sip of brandy, and I came for a short
time to the front.
I had no gaiters, and my boots were incessantly filled with snow. My
own heat sufficed for a time to melt the snow; but this clearly could
not go on for ever. My left heel first became numbed and painful; and
this increased till both feet were in great distress. I sought relief
by quitting the track and trying to get along the impending shingle
to the right. The high ridges afforded me some relief, but they were
separated by couloirs in which the snow had accumulated, and through
which I sometimes floundered waist-deep. The pain at length became
unbearable; I sat down, took off my boots and emptied them; put them
on again, tied Huxley’s pocket handkerchief round one ankle, and
my own round the other, and went forward once more. It was a great
improvement--the pain vanished, and did not return.
The scene was grand in the extreme. Before us were the buttresses of
Snowdon, crowned by his conical peak; while below us were three llyns,
black as ink, and contracting additional gloom from the shadow of the
mountain. The lines of weathering had caused the frozen rime to deposit
itself upon the rocks, as on the tendrils of a vine, the crags being
fantastically wreathed with runners of ice. The summit, when we looked
at it, damped our ardour a little; it seemed very distant, and the day
was sinking fast. From the summit the mountain sloped downward to a col
which linked it with a bold eminence to our right. At the col we aimed,
and half an hour before reaching it we passed the steepest portion
of the track. This I quitted, seeking to cut off the zig-zags, but
gained nothing but trouble by the attempt. This difficulty conquered,
the col was clearly within reach; on its curve we met a fine snow
cornice, through which we broke at a plunge, and gained safe footing on
the mountain-rim. The health and gladness of that moment were a full
recompense for the entire journey into Wales.
We went upward along the edge of the cone with the noble sweep of
the snow cornice at our left. The huts at the top were all cased in
ice, and from their chimneys and projections the snow was drawn into
a kind of plumage by the wind. The crystals had set themselves so as
to present the exact appearance of feathers, and in some cases these
were stuck against a common axis, so as accurately to resemble the
plumes in soldiers’ caps. It was 3 o’clock when we gained the summit.
Above and behind us the heavens were of the densest grey; towards the
western horizon this was broken by belts of fiery red, which nearer the
sun brightened to orange and yellow. The mountains of Flintshire were
flooded with glory, and later on, through the gaps in the ranges, the
sunlight was poured in coloured beams, which could be tracked through
the air to the places on which their radiance fell. The scene would
bear comparison with the splendours of the Alps themselves.
Next day we ascended the pass of Llanberis. The waterfalls, stiffened
into pillars of blue ice, gave it a grandeur which it might not
otherwise exhibit. The wind, moreover, was violent, and shook clouds
of snow-dust from the mountain-heads. We descended from Pen-y-Gwrid
to Beddgelert. What splendid skating surfaces the lakes presented--so
smooth as scarcely to distort the images of the hills! A snow-storm
caught us before we reached our hotel. This melted to rain during
the night. Next day we engaged a carriage for Carnarvon, but had
not proceeded more than two miles when we were stopped by the snow.
Huge barriers of it were drifted across the road; and not until the
impossibility of the thing was clearly demonstrated did we allow the
postilion to back out of his engagement. Luckily our luggage was
portable. Strapping our bags and knapsacks on our shoulders, partly
through the fields, and partly along the less encumbered portions of
the road, we reached Carnarvon on foot, and the evening of the 31st of
December saw us safe in London.