Winter On The Black Ridge

To Snowdonia, where Trail discovers that a silent valley, raking ridgeline, classic scramble and fresh dump of snow make for a truly magical route.

- Oli Reed

I look up from my snow-crusted boots, taking a break from the monotony of focusing hard on every delicate foot placement, and allow myself a few seconds to absorb the surroundings. My concentration has been broken by the hum of helicopter blades thumping somewhere beneath me, shattering the silence of the empty valley below. Ahead of me is a beautifully sculpted ridgeline, crowned by a pristine dollop of snow, knobbled like the backbone of an enormous alligator, leading straight to the summit of the third highest mountain in Wales.

I don’t mind admitting this place has taken me by surprise. I know I’m in Snowdonia because I drove through Bethesda a couple of hours ago, but it certainly doesn’t feel like it. It feels vast, empty, brutal, forgotten. Cwm Llafar, the gaping valley above which our ridge sits, is certainly more Scotland than Wales. It’s almost three miles from the nearest road, with the only indication of prior human habitation found in the decaying relics of industry we passed on the long, lonely walk-in.