had started from early that morning, only to find that someone had stolen the car. This was a wonderful end to a perfect day. Dad began to pace back and forth, immersed in thought and mumbling under his breath. Every time mother tried to speak, he would hold up his hand to stop her before the first syllable escaped her lips. On the forth attempt to interrupt him Mum was able to explain that, unless by some miracle the old overhanging elm tree by the edge of the path had grown forty feet in the last seven hours, we were almost certainly at the wrong place. Pete then noticed some additional missing landmarks, and once again Dad had to admit he was lost.
We walked a few hundred yards to a rural bus stop and waited nearly two hours for one to arrive. When it finally pulled up, we got on and went in what we later discovered was the wrong direction. After arriving at a nearby town, Dad was forced to follow Pete’s persistent and aggravating advice, and use his native tongue to ask for directions. It went much better after that. Two more bus rides and a walk that lasted nearly an hour, all of it uphill in the rain, and we saw the familiar sight of our tent and campground.
What had now become a torrential downpour had failed to dry Pete’s dungarees, and showed no sign of letting up, so we took them inside the tent to dry them out. We hung them over the ridgepole, next to the lamp, in the hope the heat would render them once again wearable. And there we all sat, huddled and shivering round the lamp – exhausted and making the most of Dad’s daily ration of lamp oil – until we drifted off to sleep.
“Damn it!”
Shocked rudely awake by the sound of Dad shouting, I immediately smelled the burning denim. In the darkness I could see the faint glow of Pete’s left trouser leg as it hung from the center of the tent next to the now-dark lamp. I heard my father yell again as he burned himself throwing the ruined apparel outside, to be extinguished in the pouring rain. I tried to position myself to avoid the boulder sticking in my back, then slipped back into an uneasy and uncomfortable unconsciousness.
I drifted slowly and reluctantly into a semi-aware state to my father grumbling. This was unusual, since he was what is commonly called a morning person. You might say that, in our household, he was at his best when everyone else was at their worst. At first I could not discern the source of his grief, but as I listened I heard my brother's name sandwiched between two well-chosen examples of profanity, and this was sufficient to secure my interest. I peered cautiously out of the tent just in time to see Dad kicking the pile of burned muddy trousers that once had served to outfit my brother.
During the early hours we were lucky enough to experience one of the particularly sharp frosts for which North Wales is famous. My exhaled breath hung on the still air like the clouds above that promised a refreshing shower. I soon learned the reason for Dad’s foul temperament. It seemed that during the midnight struggle with Pete’s burning attire, Dad had inadvertently kicked his pack of cigarettes out into the rain. They were now ruined, which meant our day would be also. I had seen Dad go through nicotine withdrawal many times before, and it was not at all pleasant.
He walked a little way off from the campsite where he could curse out loud and come to terms with his tobacco-inspired demons, and upon his return stated that the loss of his cigarettes was, in some measure, a blessing. He proclaimed this was the opportunity he had been waiting for to quit the habit and gazed toward the sky vowing that no more cigarette smoke would ever pass his lips.
From that point on he was bad tempered, angry and would burst into rage at the slightest provocation. His first demonstration of this sadistic mood was to announce that since we had now worn the same cloths continuously for three and a half days, this morning we would bath. This is the moment I was dreading. Pete and I stood to attention and were handed a towel and a bar of hard green soap before being ordered to follow Dad down to the stream. Mum had been examining the burned britches closely and decided she could, with a sewing machine and a few spare minutes, convert them to a pair of shorts, so Pete was instructed to wash them a second time, along with the lower part of his legs.
At the assigned terrible place we disrobed and stepped into the water. At first we sat on the bank and tried to splash as little water on our bodies as possible. We rubbed the soap into thin foam for effect, but Dad was unconvinced by these theatrics and picked up a large stick that was intended to encourage us to completely submerge ourselves. We had no choice but to comply, despite the fact Pete was afraid one of us would slip under the ice and be lost forever. As soon as Dad would let us, we emerged, dried ourselves vigorously, dressed and ran back to the camp, where the next challenge was to drink enough hot tea to raise our body temperature high enough to fend off the hypothermia and frostbite.
Dad still maintained his grip on the stick as he paced back and forth in his nicotine-starved frenzy. And then, explained with all the tenderness of an army drill sergeant, that today we would climb Snowdon. This entire region was called Snowdonia, named after this impressive mountain, which was the highest peak in the area and something of a tourist destination. According to Dad, ascending this natural wonder and enjoying the supposed magnificent views from the top was the main reason for the trip. Lovingly, he told us that this climb would be moderate to hard, and he would not tolerate slackers.
With no further explanation, we set off. Dad in the lead, setting a brisk pace; Mum following doing her best to keep up; and Pete and I trotting behind. Last night's rain had been quite severe, and within the first thirty seconds of the march my feet were already wet. I suffered in silence. But Pete, who apparently had a similar problem, was more outspoken and suggested we abort the mission, which caused Dad to launch into one of his stories. This utter fabrication had him, at the request of the British Army, training a pack of new recruits in the skills of mountaineering on this very mountain. He regaled us with tales of traversing ledges no more than six inches wide, and hanging on by his fingertips as a troop of soldiers cried like babies as they tried desperately to keep up with him. He concluded by saying that if Pete had any complaints in the footware department, he would carry his boots and climb Snowdon in his bare feet.
On and on we journeyed, through terrain that looked identical to the scenery of the previous two days. The climb was as steep and as hard as Dad had promised, the only unexpected delight being a strong, freezing-cold headwind. By mid-morning we were in desperate shape – on the verge of collapse – when my father stopped, turned and held up a hand for us to cease our upward procession. Obviously feeling the stress from being unable to light up, he was now sweating and grinding his teeth.
He put his hand inside his Jacket and produced four oblong-wrapped snacks. Oh what joy I felt in anticipation of consuming some chocolate, but I kept my excitement in check for two reasons. The first was, that in his vile frame of mind, Dad was likely to eat all the chocolate bars himself. He would do this slowly in front of us providing the maximum amount of torture as revenge for us spoiling his holiday.
The second reason I had reservations was I knew every known chocolate bar manufactured in England at that time, and did not recognize this one. I reasoned foolishly that this must be some little-known Welsh delicacy – probably very good, no doubt containing caramel and hazelnuts.
My first fear was dispelled when Dad handed each of us a bar. My second fear was realized when I looked at the product label. It was white and depicted a mountain climber and a picture of an odd-looking shrub that I did not recognize. In the center were the words “Climbers Lunch.” Dad explained that these were high-energy snacks, packed with protein and designed as a complete meal in the palm of your hand. He went on to tell us of their use in every Everest Expedition so far. They were apparently quite expensive and he had been saving them for the most difficult day.
While I thought they tasted like sawdust and dirt, Pete felt that the consistency more closely resembled pencil-shavings and coal dust. In any event, the look on Mum's and Dad’s faces as they took the first bite indicated they were also wondering how some
thing could taste so disgusting.
We tried in vain to eat the distasteful substance. Several times Pete made a sound like he was going to vomit, Mum spit out the last bite, and I threw the final inch and a half of mine away, which made Dad angry because he would have gladly eaten it. He felt that if it was good enough for Himalayan explorers, it was good enough for us. The experience left me feeling no more energetic and no less hungry. I was developing an overpowering urge to eat some real food – something that would quell the hunger pains and get the rotten taste out of my mouth. We all shared a similar viewpoint, but Dad consoled us with the knowledge that at the top of Snowdon there was a small snack bar, where it was possible to buy tea and biscuits, chocolates and crisps. This may well have been the only thing that kept us going.
Dad was obviously in the throes of tobacco deprivation, and even when it started to rain he didn't cheer up. I noticed he was checking his compass more frequently today, which kept us on a sharply inclined, narrow path of loose gravel for the next three hours. Shortly after the time of day normal people were usually occupied with lunch, we dragged ourselves
Mountain Misery Page 4
