The following is a slightly edited version of a story I wrote while at the University College of North Wales, Bangor, concerning a fund-raising stunt by UCNW RC to carry a coxed four plus blades, from sea level to the top of Mount Snowdon, during the Winter of 1983. Any names have been limited to initials to protect identity and avoid any undue embarrassment!
It all started during a Rowing Club committee meeting in November 1981, where the matter of fund-raising was discussed. Because of growing costs in the sport and a lack of finance from the Athletic Union, there was little money available for the maintenance or purchase of equipment. Among various ridiculous ideas to raise new funds was the suggestion that a boat could be carried to the top of Mount Snowdon as a sponsored event. With the thought of large publicity, the idea was greeted enthusiastically by most of the committee. However, when it came to discussing technical problems created by such a venture there was less support, with the result that new suggestions were made and accepted. The Snowdon Adventure was forgotten, though not for long!
Almost exactly two years later in November 1993, the then Captain (PY) suggested once again that a boat be carried to the top of Snowdon. Yet again the committee was enthusiastic and an Emergency Boat Club Meeting was arranged. Expecting a standing ovation, the Captain received an unwelcome wave of no confidence in the idea. Also, with four fairly experienced climbers dismissing the idea as stupidly dangerous, not only was the initial plan thrown out, but so was the suggestion of setting up a sub-committee to look into its feasibility.
When the meeting had finished a hushed discussion took place between the captain, the treasurer (GH) and myself. Not deterred by the fact that most of the club thought we were right dorks, we decided to continue a feasibility study of such an ascent. A few days later the Maintenance Officer of the Boat Club, who had initially spoken out against the plan and influencing many of the Club (especially the girls!), came forward to say that he had changed his mind and now thought that it was possible. The cogs were now in motion. In the following days secret meetings were to take place in the Belle Vue Pub and Friddoedd Bar. With grim determination we set about the task of finding a sensible way to transport a 40 foot boat, four riggers and four blades up a mountain. By strange coincidence, the more pints we drank the more the ideas flowed and the better and more feasible the ideas became! One of these brainwaves was to take the boat from sea level, 3560 feet higher to the top of Snowdon rowing on all available water. In fact a route could be traced from the coast of Porthmadog, along the River Glaslyn valley, through Beddgelert and up the mountain, including the three lakes on Mount Snowdon itself. This idea met with instant approval and was to be the turning point in the history of the club. From that brief moment in time, UCNW RC was to change from being an obscure little university boat club in North Wales, to being an ever-so-slightly less obscure little university boat club in North Wales.
Other members began to pay more attention and it became clear that there was now enough support to make it a club event. PM, as a further excuse not to do any academic work, produced a surprisingly well-articulated sponsorship form, distributed (and subsequently lost) over the Christmas holidays.
The first and last pre-event practice took place on our return in January, where we succeeded in carrying the two sections of the boat all the way from the boathouse to the Gazelle Inn at Menai Bridge in time for a lunchtime drink. As the time for action drew close however, the smooth running was short-lived and various complications started to arise. First, we were informed by the appropriate authorities that due to the early spawning of the Welsh Salmon, we would not be able to row on the River Glaslyn. Also, with a recent spate of accidents on Snowdon (some tragically fatal) we were informed by TJ, warden of Emrys Evans Hall and Mountain Rescue Volunteer, that snow and ice had obscured all tracks above the highest lake, Llyn Glaslyn, making any ascent extremely dangerous. With much regret it was decided that it would be too hazardous to allow a club assault on the summit (especially as insurance in the case of accident could not be found!). Instead, a small contingent from the Rowing Club would combine with a few members of the Mountaineering Club and take the boat on up the hard way from the top lake.
The final schedule was drawn out. The boat would be carried from Porthmadog to the top of Snowdon in three days. On the first day a team of 16 would carry it from Porthmadog to the lake just past Beddgelert, where it would be rigged and rowed the length of the lake. It would then be left in a friendly farmyard for the night. The next morning it would be taken to the base of Snowdon and with the whole club involved it would be carried up the mountain and rowed across all three lakes. On the third day with luck would be the final ascent. With the help of ropes, the boat section would be lifted and hauled up the steep slopes to the summit.
With the onset of February, last minute preparations got underway. Posters were printed, an article placed in the UCNW magazine Y Seren, newspapers and TV were informed, protective boat covers made, minibus hired, walking boots kindly donated by Plas-Y-Brenin collected, sandwiches made, wills drawn up.. We were ready.
Crash!!!!!!
I woke with a start,
Get up you lazy b came the unmistakable voice of HJ from
somewhere outside the room. Irritated, I politely told him to go away,
knowing full well however that I should have got up when the alarm went
off half an hour ago. With the comforting thought that it was better
than getting up for an early morning rowing outing, I dressed quickly.
After a quick breakfast of cereal, scrambled egg on toast and about five
cups of tea, HJ and I set off into the darkness across the playing
fields to the Emrys car park.
PY was there to greet us, putting on one of his fierce disapproving looks. Sorry were late! I said cheerfully. We climbed into the back of the waiting minibus and in the gloom made out the faces of the rest of the team. We arrived in Porthmadog at about 7.15am, looking more dead than alive. This was not only due to the early hour but also because the exhaust fumes seemed to be directed into the bus rather than outside. After quickly preparing the boat and a short photo session, we set off on our adventure.
The first phase of the operation proved to be surprisingly enjoyable. Changing teams every half hour meant there was constant competition between the two sections of the boat and as we left the road and continued along the old railway track following the River Glaslyn, it became clear that we were well ahead of schedule. We had anticipated arriving in Beddgelert around 12.30-1.00pm, but actually arrived at 10.30am! Not only was this embarrassingly early, but the pubs didnt open until eleven. After some quick thinking we decided to continue to the first lake, leave the boat on the bank and drive back to Beddgelert for lunch. With this goal in mind all thoughts of fatigue were forgotten and the two boat sections sprinted off towards the lake. The boat was rigged in record time and within half an hour of leaving we were back and sitting inside the pub. Well, what on earth were we going to do until 2.30pm? (the scheduled time for rowing the lake) we wondered as we were settling down to our second pint. By the fourth we were so comfortable, we thought wed stay in the pub!
It had gone 3.00pm by the time we returned to the boat. The water was freezing cold as we walked it away from the shallows and one by one climbed in and pushed out. With a line up of experienced oarsmen, great things were expected of us as we rowed off. Lets do a rowing start someone suggested, so we did, but immediately after the first stroke I found myself flat on my back with the blade handle passing over my head! The spectators on the bank watched with awe and amazement as I recovered myself from the bottom of the boat. We tried again, but this time the whole of strokeside caught a crab and we must have been very close to turning over. I thought you could row came a voice from somewhere and as we set off again, strokeside and me in particular kept crabbing in the face of continual abuse from the rest of the crew. Eventually Id had enough and when someone suggested they would be better off without me I replied OK you can . do without me! and promptly jumped out of the boat. I immediately regretted the decision as I plunged into the freezing cold water. Luckily however they did row better without a stroke man and with me holding onto their stern they continued across the lake. At the far bank after getting out and removing blades, PY was still sitting in the coxs seat, evidently waiting for someone to give him a helping hand So they did, tipping him straight into the lake!
With dusk settling down upon the countryside, the boat was bedded down for the night in a nearby farmhouse and we returned back to base, tired, wet, but happy.
Another cold morning and still half asleep and stiff from the day before, we travelled back to the lonesome farmhouse in the Welsh hills. Mist shrouded the countryside giving it an almost ghostly appearance. Not far from the house was the next lake. It was to here that the boat was carried, boots squelching in the sodden ground. Once again the boat was rigged and a different crew put to the water. Thankfully this was technically more able than the first one, as no one felt like going swimming that early in the morning.
From the far side of the lake it was a straight run up to the base of Snowdon. It was here that the rest of the club and the press were here to meet us. Seeing us struggling below in the valley, the girls came down the hill to lend a hand. In fact they completely took over and looking very splendid in their winter outfits proceeded to bring the boat up, with the BBC and ITV cameras zooming in for the first time. Just our luck!
The first lake up Mount Snowdon was completely frozen over and hence unrowable, so we continued up the mountain to the second lake. Luckily this was free of ice and we proceeded to put the boat together. For some reason the press were fascinated by the joining of the two halves and with cameras rolling, did close up shots of the bolts of one section being inserted into the holes of the other! At last however we got the boat on the water and the cameras filmed the crew as they rowed out upon the becalmed lake. From our vantage point high above, the view was breathtaking. The craggy snow-clad peaks momentarily lost their starkness and instead stood bright and majestic, while the water far below glistened in the wintry sunshine. Like an insect upon a garden pond, the boat moved silently across the golden surface, leaving but a trail of ripples in its wake.
The next stage was going to be tricky. The boat now sectioned had to be carried back up the steep slope where it rejoined the Miners Track. Even with seven people on each half it was a difficult task. Many a cry could be heard as someone slipped on the wet rocks, or placed a foot in an awaiting fissure. It also turned out to be a race to the top. Some bright spark in our team guided us along a short cut, following the path of a waterfall. Climbing up algae-covered rock with melt-water swirling around your feet, was not a particularly pleasant experience. In fact we didnt get up any quicker either and eventually reached the path battered, bruised and soaking wet. Thankfully extra hands now took hold of the boat and we set off towards the last lake.
It was about halfway between the two lakes that we hit the snowline. Over a distance of about twenty five metres, grey barren rock was transformed by a blanket of crisp white snow. Dark gullies cut their way through glistening slopes hiding waterfalls, now frozen into a state of suspended animation. Ice, disguised by a recent covering of snow, layered the rocky track and it became increasingly more difficult to find a firm foothold. Slipping was a frequent occurrence and it was with some relief that we reached the shores of Llyn Glaslyn without damage to the boat or equipment. The panoramic view from the waters-edge was spellbinding, with mountains towering above us on all sides. Patches of sparkling snow draped over the ancient sable rocks like Christmas decorations. The lake, serene and beautiful, reflected unshaken images over the surface of its deep dark water. Snowdon sloped upwards and beyond into the distance, its summit shrouded in a veil of mist and cloud. Silence descended on our awe-struck party.
Its bloody frozen! someone rudely remarked as a stone bounced its way over the water. It certainly was, well, quite a bit anyway, and we had to revise the intended launching site. Yet another crew took to the water and after a little trouble getting away from the bank they rowed out into the mist. It was an odd sensation listening to the clear sound of splashing blades, with the boat far across the lake and out of sight. Unfortunately the total length could not be traversed due to ice, so the crew rowed as far as possible before being forced to turn around. It was at this point that someone caught a massive crab, with the boat lurching violently to one side. I cannot repeat what was said at the time, but I am sure that everyone else in Snowdonia heard it as well. Anyway, they were spared a ducking. With the water at almost sub-zero temperatures and expected survival time about two minutes, a capsize I suppose would not have been all that funny. The crew returned triumphant, having rowed on one of the highest lakes in Britain. Of course, everyone else decided they would like to achieve this distinction also and the next half hour was spent putting out different crew combinations.
Time was getting on however and Mount Snowdon in Winter was not the sort of place to be after dark. The boat was split and the specially-made protective covers securely wrapped around the hull. After a quick snowball fight using lumps of hard ice, we divided into two groups. One group was to take the equipment to a selected spot higher up the mountain, while the rest were to return to Bangor. With much regret(!) I accepted the job of driving the minibus with the latter group back to the University and we set off back down the Miners Track. Meanwhile the boat was dragged up to its resting place, high up above Llyn Glaslyn. The going was pretty tough but was succeeded without accident. Darkness fell quickly as they followed the trail back to the hostel.
This was the day we had been waiting for, when we would finally take the boat up to the summit. It was a cold, crisp morning and from afar Mount Snowdon stood out from the rest, its peak still hidden in mist and cloud.
At Pen-y-pass youth hostel the six of us, hand-picked from the elite of the University boat club after months of intense selection and high-altitude training, prepared for the climb ahead. The pair of gloves which I was to be borrowing from PM did not surface and I was forced to use a pair of worn out, moth-eaten, smelly pair of socks instead. Seeing no sign of the mountaineering party we were supposed to be joining up with, we set off up the Miners track to where the boat had been left. As we drew near the Llyn Glaslyn, a blanket of thick fog enveloped us. Just what we needed! The question though was where were the mountaineers? We didnt have much time to hang around.
It was by the boat we found them, or rather stumbled across them since they were all asleep and huddled up inside some bivouacs and lying under a blanket of snow. Once awoken the safety equipment they had bought with them was doled out, namely crampons (sharp spiky things that fit on your boots) and ice axes. Unfortunately there were only enough spare crampons for four of us, meaning two people would have to do without. You would have thought that with GH and myself being the least experienced in the art of mountaineering, we would have needed crampons the most but no, we had to do without! Therefore as we set off, I had the uncomfortable feeling that perhaps with socks on my hands and Clarks Commando shoes on my feet, I was not as prepared for the task ahead as I might have been.
By now the fog had thickened and the eerie silence gave one the feeling that a yeti was about to appear out of the gloom. At first the slopes were gentle and we made good headway through the drifting snow. As we went higher however, the incline became more acute and the going a lot tougher. Visibility was down to a few metres and we relied heavily on the experience and good memories of the three mountaineers accompanying us. The pace slowed dramatically and I can tell you it was hard work climbing a steep, slippery slope with half a boat in one hand. At this point however, I must tell you about GH who was transporting all the oars. It was a sad sight to see him trudging along at the rear dragging the four heavy wooden Collar blades behind him and not a word of complaint. Truly a credit to the human race! Us lesser mortals however wanted to know how much longer it was going to take. But, every time the question was asked, RD a mountaineer, always replied that he was sure we were well over half-way.
It was after he gave this answer for the fourth time that I decided I had had enough. My socks acting as gloves were just solid ice and my hands were too cold to describe! The little animal tracks on the soles of my shoes were not up to this job and my feet were continually slipping on the icy snow. Many a time I would slide into a forlorn heap bringing the boat down with me and I had to dig deep into my reserves and sense of purpose to keep going. The slope steepened further still and we were forced to start using ropes. RD would climb on ahead and fix a belay through which a long rope was passed, one end being attached to a section of boat. The rest of us would then haul on the other end and the boat, in theory, slide uphill with ease. Unfortunately, things did not always go to plan. Either we would strain our backs trying to pull the thing up, or else the boat would shoot up at a rate of knots and we would go flying backwards down the mountain. Somewhere up ahead was a ridge, behind which was the Snowdon railway track. From there it would be an easy walk to the summit.
Desperately peering into the fog, the inevitable question was asked again with we must be over half-way as the reply. At this point I was ready to give up on the spot. My hands were so cold I felt like crying. Suddenly, an exclamation caused us to look around. Behind us the fog had cleared and what I saw made me shrink back in horror and amazement. Far, far below, shimmering in the distance, was Llyn Glaslyn. Although elated by the thought we had climbed so far, I was also struck with fear. Here I was just barely clinging onto an extremely steep part of the mountain, clutching at icy snow and rock which sloped at an alarming rate all the way down to that distant lake. I barely moved a muscle, even when a frozen ham sandwich was thrown at me. Another exclamation was heard, this time from RD The fog had cleared up ahead and the ridge we had thought was at least 500m away was actually right in front of us. All thoughts of cold and tiredness were forgotten and the short distance to the ridge, though difficult, was achieved in high spirits. Now almost on level ground, the walk to the actual summit was comparatively easy and we enjoyed every minute of it. Once there, the boat was bolted together, rigged and the four blades placed in their respective gates. Climbers complete with goggles and helmets appeared out of the fog, almost fainting in shock at the sight of our motley mob complete with rowing boat, on one of the highest mountains in Britain in the middle of a harsh Winter.
We had arrived!
The bottle of vintage champagne specially brought up for this moment was opened. Not much of it was drunk however. As a result of my frozen sock-gloves, I duly dropped the bottle!
David Conington