Mountain Misery

by Stephen R Drage

onto the summit.

  Mum lay face-down in some rocks, breathing heavily, while Pete walked round the uneven edge to find the snacks. I followed Dad over to a good observation point to revel in our triumph. He was in no mood today for a long-winded Welsh monologue, and did not even point out the significant peaks in the mountain range. Instead, all of his attention was focused on another climber who, having arrived shortly before us, was now standing alone a short distance away surveying the spectacular landscape through binoculars, and smoking a cigarette.

  Dad rushed over to greet the fellow, who it turned out was a Boy Scout leader from Liverpool. Dad began making small talk that would, as it progressed, lead to him scrounging a cigarette. As they began to discuss the view, Pete walked over and joined us. He looked disappointed and I asked what was wrong. He said he had been unable to find the snack bar and suggested that Dad had lied to trick us into continuing. The scoutmaster heard the disappointment and interrupted us, explaining there was, indeed, a snack bar.

  Handing Pete his binoculars and pointing to a distant peak, he said, “Over there, on the top of Snowdon.”

  We walked away to break the distressing news to Mum. Dad paid an exorbitant price for seven cigarettes, and both the wind and rain picked up as we began our decent in silence. A very aggressive wind was picking up, carrying with it enough sparse rain to sting any exposed flesh. It would have been quite painful were it not for the fact our faces and limbs were already numb from the cold. Dad, at last, had found weather to rival the North Sea.

  Evidently, calmed and soothed by the reintroduction of smoke, Dad, in an unexpected act of benevolence, announced that tonight there would be a change in cuisine. We would have a special meal. This was, indeed, good news, because we had all become bored with the monotony of the stodgy, mysterious substance cooked over our gas stove – a device way to small to thoroughly heat the contents of the single pot. Of course, Dad was not bothered by this. His normal serving technique was to first feed us a lukewarm portion, and continue to heat the remainder until it suited his palate.

  We found this latest declaration to be wonderful news. I was still somewhat traumatized by the chocolate that turned out to be a Sherpa snack, and thus was on my guard against any false hope up, but this latest announcement could, surely, only mean one thing.

  The thought of fish and chips delighted me to the very core of my being. I imagined cod in a light batter, fried golden-brown, chips just the perfect size – hot, with plenty of salt and vinegar. Pete decided he would have sausage and chips with a large helping of mushy peas. Mum had just opened her mouth to lay claim to her chosen menu item when Dad said;

  “That clump of woods beside the stream should be a good place for you boys to gather firewood, and – ”

  “Fire wood!” my mother hissed. She was usually a staunch supporter of Dad and would always back him up. But this time it was different. I have never seen Mum like this before, or since. Enduring the horrendous conditions of this misadventure had clearly caused her to have some kind of a mental breakdown. Her good-natured temperament was gone, and she stared one of those stubborn “I wont back down” stares as she began to remind Dad about some of the holiday's highlights.

  In a long and unbroken tirade, she listed what she felt were the prominent hardships. She began with saying how annoying it was to listen to Dad speaking Welsh all the time, how she was tired and exhausted from sleepless nights in wet cloths, on stone-covered ground. She spoke at some length about how miserable his lack of cigarettes made the rest of us, and complained of being constantly cold, wet, hungry and thirsty, and could tolerate no more boring lectures or endless walks in fog, rain or sleet.

  When Mum stopped to take a breath, Pete took over, recalling how we had been lost every day, even on a bus! How we had climbed the same mountain twice, and then the wrong mountain; and how he had ruined what had now become his favorite trousers. I interrupted Pete to add the frost-like icing on the mountain-shaped cake by recollecting the nasty meals, bathing in icy water and almost being burned to death while we slept.

  It must have been something about the insubordinate look in our eyes that made my father slowly back up to the edge of the path, toward the vertical drop to a frozen wilderness below. This impending peril gave us pause, and we all stopped talking. Dad must have realized his crew was on the verge of mutiny and could be pushed no further. After a seemingly endless moment, he said, “OK, fish and chips it is!”

  Things were at last starting to look up. Fish and chips meant a trip to the nearby town, which meant shops, bright lights and a warm place to shelter from the foul weather. Perhaps we would be treated to the ultimate luxury of a hot cup of tea in Woolworth’s cafeteria.

  We managed to get to a nearby unpronounceable town without the car breaking down, but had our dreams shattered to find an oblong blue-and-white “Closed” sign hanging on the chip shop door. Despite the clearly displayed notice and dark interior, Mum made Pete try the door anyway. Pete did so, with predictable results.

  Dad was able to salvage something of the situation by finding a pub that was open. We pulled into the car park behind the old stone building, and Pete and I sat in the car staring at the warm and inviting glow coming from the small paned windows while Mum and Dad went inside to buy some cigarettes. It was cold in the car and the frost soon began to form intricate patterns on the windows. About forty-five minutes later Mum and Dad emerged, seeming quite cheerful. I was glad to see my mother laughing again and hopeful that Dad would now be in a good enough mood to put the car heater on. They handed us a bag of cheese-and-onion crisps to share and a bottle half full of lemonade, then announced that their steak-and-kidney pie was almost ready and they should only be another hour or so.

  By the time we arrived back at the tent, the temperature had dropped below zero, and Dad was thankful for all the alcohol in his system. The rest of us went through the usual routine of rolling up into a ball and shivering the night away. A dreadful icy blast had gained access to our temporary shelter at the corner nearest my head. The homemade tent pegs were probably to blame. I jammed Mum’s jacket up against the gap where canvas met frosty ground and tried to hold the tent down with my gloved hands. The noise of the wind, the pounding of the rain on the tent, and Dad’s snoring made sleep impossible for three of us. Our sleeplessness was actually a good thing, because it meant we were fully awake and ready to spring into action when the tent blew down at about three o’clock in the morning.

  Mum and Pete and I immediately sprinted to the car, where we watched from safety as Dad chased the ghostly white figure of a tumbling tent as it blew across the field. It eventually got snagged in a tree, which is where Dad left it until the next morning. In those three short hours between our storm-inflicted eviction and the next morning’s sunrise – sitting upright in the car, leaning against the door – I enjoyed the most rewarding and refreshing sleep since we left our village.

  The first part of the morning was spent, trying to locate missing camping equipment. The camp was a disaster, having been scattered across two-thirds of a field. We found most of the bedding. Pete’s blanket was in the stream and his trousers were gone for good, a sacrifice offered up to the Wind God. We found the stove quite quickly, but much of the foodstuff was blown into infinity. Breakfast was obviously out of the question, as was remaining at this god-forsaken location any longer, so throwing what we could salvage into the car – everything wet and in disarray – we resolved to eat on the road.

  My plans to spend the trip pleasantly dozing, lulled by the hum of the car engine and the road noise, did not materialize. The nuisance I felt on the outward trip from sharing a seat not only with my brother but also with a tent was magnified ten-fold because the tent was wet and three times as big, and my brother, angry from the loss of his cherished and irreplaceable trousers.

  Dad was no happier, having been deprived of the pleasure of climbing Mount Snowdon, so he drove on, sulking silently. Mum tried to cheer him with promises of a fulf
illing ascent next year, but Dad paid her no mind. He watched the passing skyline diligently in hope of catching a glimpse of his beloved mountain. The firm set of his jaw muscles and tense brow told us something was very wrong, but knowing how he would react to questions made us afraid to inquire the reason for his stern and pensive countenance.

  Our answer came in the form of a death-defying example of dangerous driving that would have made any stuntman envious. He twisted the steering wheel rapidly, causing the car to turn sharply. The tires squealed and kicked up mud and small stones as the two passenger-side wheels climbed the roadside verge and the car made a tight U-turn. Mum hung on the edge of her seat as Pete and I were thrown to the same side of the car, a jumbled mass of arms and legs. Our faces were pressed up against the window in such a manner that we could not help but see the worn road sign that read “Mount Snowdon 5 miles.”

  We now realized that Dad had come too far and gone through too much to give in so easily. Seeing the sign made us realize the very best we could expect was a boring day sitting in the car, sheltering from the cold, waiting for Dad to return from his climb. When, upon our arrival at