A 30th and a 1st

I went up Corn Du aged 29 and came down Pen y Fan aged 30.  Here's what happened in between.

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Until fairly recently, I couldn't decide how to celebrate my 30th birthday.  Then, I got it in my head that I wanted to go up Pen y Fan with some friends.  Then, I decided I wanted to do it alone.  Then, I learned about microadventures.  Then, these things slowly combined until the following plan took shape: go on a solo microadventure nearby the night before, then head up the mountain first thing in the morning.

Not sure that I would be able to pull off sleeping outside, in the middle of nowhere, alone, I did what I always do in these situations: conducted extensive nervous internet searches.  Satisfied that a) lots of other people, including other women, did solo excursions, and b) very few of them seem to have died or been horrifically disfigured as a result, I started to get more used to the idea -- but not before sending a jittery email to Mr. Microadventure himself, Alastair Humphreys, detailing my fears, writing that "escaped convicts and bear maulings come to mind, for example; and yes, I know there aren't bears in Wales, but I can see the headlines now: 'AMERICAN PHD STUDENT MAULED BY ESCAPED CONVICT'S PET BEAR')."  Reassured on all fronts, I went ahead with the plan.

On June 26th, the day of departure, I spent the morning and early afternoon participating in the second day of a conference at Cardiff University on Music in Nineteenth-Century Britain.  I had put together two panels on 19thC music and literature, one of which I chaired, and on the other I was a panelist.  But, when the delegates went off for the afternoon on a trip to Cyfarthfa Castle, I seized the moment.  Shouldering the pack I had stashed under my desk, complete with the microadventurer's few but instrumental needs, I bid adieu to my officemates, and loped off to catch the next bus to the Brecon Beacons.

In the interest of time and keeping my nerves to a manageable hum, I decided to take the easiest and most obvious route up the hill, starting from the Storey Arms.  I arrived in the late afternoon, but the sun was still high in the sky and shining brightly amongst the clouds; the wind was gentle and the air was warm.  Conditions were perfect.  Figuring I had at least five hours of light left -- plenty of time to go up and high-tail it back down should I change my mind -- I headed up the path.

Before long, I discovered that this particular route was a prime example of standard British Relentless Uphillery.  "Switchbacks are for the weak!" -- British trailblazers.  This meant, however, that the views got pretty spectacular pretty quickly.  Up and over the first small hill, and across a little stream, the path continued all the way up to Corn Du, stretching out before me across the hillside.

 

 

 

Because of the aforementioned Relentless Uphillery, the journey was relatively short, and before long I was at the top.

 

 

 

 

 

The views in all directions were spectacular, with the hills of the Brecon Beacons unfolding layer upon layer in the distance, gradations of green slowly fading into the horizon, valleys rolling out endlessly below.

 

 

 



 

 

Having noticed an ominous cloud above Pen y Fan but having also noticed that it was moving in the opposite direction, and looking to make use of the hours ahead, I decided to head back down Corn Du and along the ridge past the Tommy Jones obelisk down to Llyn Cwm Llwch.

 

 



 

Circling around south to the shore of the lake, I was feeling rather warm and a bit grimy from my climb.  The clear, still water was outrageously tempting to me, so I crouched down at the edge to investigate.  The water was teeming with life, from various insects to newts to dozens of tadpoles...

 

 



 

 

...to leeches.  After scaring all the tadpoles away by putting my hands in and splashing water on my face and arms, I noticed no less than five small leeches slowly wriggling towards the source of the disturbance, followed by one rather large specimen, at which point I made up my mind: no swimming.  This isn't a Victorian sickbed; I'd like to hang onto as much of my blood as I can, thankyouverymuch.

 



 

 

So instead, I sat in the sun, ate the sandwich I had brought, marvelled at the view of Corn Du and Pen y Fan, and considered my options for the advancing night. 

 

 





 

 

Still not totally convinced that I was actually going to pull this off, and not willing to make myself go through with it if I didn't want to, I tried to sift through the various impulses I was feeling in order to determine what I really wanted.  People, I said to myself, do solo trips all the time, to much more remote parts of the world.  There is very little danger in sleeping wild, when it comes down to it; I'm probably far more vulnerable walking home through Cardiff after dark, which I do freqently and without thinking twice.  My fears about being a lone female were allayed by the realization that, once tucked away in my bivy, I would be anonymous and androgenous.  And what is inspiring my fear, anyway? I wondered.  Is it a set of valid concerns, or is it the Culture of Fear in which we live that tells us danger is lurking around every corner, especially for women?  So, sitting by the lake, under the ridge, I decided that I was going to do it.  I was going to sleep outside tonight, by myself, on the eve of my 30th birthday.  And, furthermore, I decided that I was going to do this on the summit of Corn Du.

 

***

 

Determined, I climbed back up to the top of Corn Du and surveyed the scene.  A handful of hikers came and went, crossing the saddle over to Pen y Fan before descending back down to the road.  Mostly, though, it was just me and some sheep.

 

 

 

From the north end of the summit, the memorial obelisk on the ridge continued to catch my eye, as have all references to death and the mountains over the last six months.  I suppose it will always be this way now.  In January, my friend Tom was doing some winter climbing with his girlfriend and four others near Glencoe, Scotland.  After a spectacular day up and out, they got swept away in an avalanche while descending Bidean nam Bian.  The mountain claimed Tom as its own, and as the momentum of the avalanche came to an end, so did his remarkable life, and the lives of three others, all young, dynamic, intelligent, talented, why-can't-I-be-more-like-them sort of people.  Tom and I had lived together for two years while doing our PhDs in Hull, until I moved to Cardiff last September.  We had quickly become good friends, bonding over a shared sense of humor, love of the outdoors, and taste in music.  Tom was a gifted athlete and a committed mountaineer, climber, long-distance runner, mountain biker, and skier, among other things, and was happiest in the mountains.  At his funeral, it was striking how frequently the word "adventure" came up in the descriptions of Tom, and we all agreed that the best way to honor his memory was to commit to more adventures of our own.  So when I first came across the microadventure concept, the enthusiastic response I heard in my head was Tom's voice, not mine.  The desire to tell Tom about my (micro)adventure was intense, and heartbreaking.  But then I remembered an article I read by a skier who had lost friends to the great outdoors, which he concluded by saying that the people we lost will always be found at the top of a mountain, and when we find ourselves at a summit, we get to spend some time with them again.  So, sitting on the top of Corn Du, watching the sunset over the Brecon Beacons, I spent a little time with Tom.

 

***

 

Before long, the sun had disappeared behind the hills, and night closed in.  I moved over to the eastern side of the summit where there was less wind and set up my gear.  Feeling fine, but already looking forward to the morning, I wormed my way down into my bivy and waited to fall asleep.

 

 

 

Sadly, I would be waiting for a very long time.  It quickly became clear to me that I was cold -- not cold enough to worry about my safety, but cold enough to be pretty uncomfortable.  As I lay awake, I was of two minds about the cause of my predicament: was it my fault for not investing in a good, warm sleeping bag and opting to take one of my parents' old and now-unused bags instead?  Or was I blameless because, after all, the bag in question was purchased for camping in the Wyoming mountains, much higher up than the highest point in the UK?  The jury remains out.  I counted sheep; I went through all the Gram Parsons lyrics I could think of; I tried to clear my mind of all thoughts.  At intervals of what felt like hours, I checked my watch, only to see each time that no more than 30 minutes had passed.  I fell asleep occasionally, but not for long.  This would be my second sleepless microadventure.

 

I was surprised, however, to find that I had little fear.  I felt perfectly safe, and the only mental discomfort I experienced was a vague feeling of situational claustrophobia, in the sense that up on this hill, in the dark, with no phone signal, I didn't have a lot of options other than to just stick it out.  I didn't want to do anything else, but the knowledge that there wasn't a lot I could do if I did want out was occasionally discomfiting.  I thought about other female outdoor sleepers, Tom's late girlfriend being one of them, and wondered if they went through the same process on their first solo run.  Mostly, though, I wished I could sleep.

 

Finally, I peeked out at the horizon and saw light spreading across the hills.  Jubilant, I sprung from my bag, did a couple of jumping jacks, and wished myself a Happy 30th Birthday.  Shoving my gear into my pack, I went down the eastern side of Corn Du, across the saddle, and up to the top of Pen y Fan, just as the sunrise was beginning to spill pinks and oranges across the sky.

 

 

The blurry and bleary-eyed birthday girl, wedi blino ond da iawn.

 

 

I sat and watched the sunrise, feeling elated at having completed my first solo microadventure (and only my second night in a bivy bag).  No bear maulings, no malevolent ancient Welsh spirits -- just me ringing in my thirties in the best way I could think of.  The post-PhD job hunt has been stressful, and my impending return to the US grows ever more emotional with each passing day, but for the moment, none of that mattered.  It was just me, Pen y Fan, and the sunrise.

 

Once the sun was above the horizon, I headed back down the mountain, reaching the Storey Arms in time to catch the first bus back to Cardiff.  I slept most of the way, then got home, hung out my dew-wet gear, took a hot shower, and collapsed into bed for a three-hour snooze.  Rising in time to grab a coffee from the Summerhouse in Bute Park on my way to the final afternoon panels of the conference, I fell back into life, smiling inwardly at the knowledge that mere hours before I had been sleeping on the top of Corn Du, then standing on the top of Pen y Fan.  That evening, I met my friends at La Lupa for food and vino.  It was a fantastic birthday and a great microadventure, and if this is a sign of things to come, I can't wait to see what else 30 has in store for me.

 

***

 

And that's how I went up a mountain 29 and came down 30.

 

The end.  Or is it the beginning?