Miles above Betwys-y-Coed, Wales, April 2010
Here’s an idea I’ve been fantasizing about for a while: How about I move to Wales and make the Pen y Pass hostel my permanent residence? The place where mountaineer George Mallory (of Everest fame) used to lodge when ascending Snowdon and where I spent a short time that I’ve come to remember as one of the happiest and most fulfilling of my life. I’ll wake up before the light every morning and eat my egg breakfast, entertained by the young cook singing along to the morning wake up of ukulele tunes as he flips sausages on the stove top. Hikers and climbers in their snow gear take plate fulls of the traditional English breakfast, building energy before heading outside to begin their way on the trail head just across the road. Your choice of either the Miners or Pyg trails to the summit of Snowdon. My daily agenda will consist of this: 1) Breakfast, 2) Hike. I’ll come home each evening to swap stories with the others. “We went all the way to the Carneddau without snow shoes on, the snow came up to our hips.” “I went down toward Betwys-y-Coed and got lost for hours along the river. My boots are soaked in mud.” That’s all I’d ever need. That’s all I ever really want. Spend a couple days with me in the mountains and you’ll know where I belong. Or if you could feel what I feel when I look ahead and see snow capped slopes. Everything else becomes immaterial—this is what I’ve been looking for, my now and forever present, my clarity. I’m done, I’ve found it, sign me up. When do I start? Immediately? Perfect.
