Swallow your pride. Begin again.
Yes, well. Here's a place to get back into climbing after two years of lockdowns and other interruptions. Knots, anchors, belaying, protection. All of that, plus confidence, remembering, sharpness.
Tryfan and the Glyders in freezing February.
Or, maybe not. Maybe start small. Behold: Big Tryfan on the right, a colossal and forbidding rock, and Little Tryfan down on the left (below), the slab which looks like a slantwise cut across a chunk of rib-eye steak. Much more suitable.
After a couple of days of hiking on the tops, Little Tryfan (or Tryfan Bach) presents itself as a good spot to re-learn some basic skills. We are looking for quiet, shelter from the chilly wind and some easy routes. Stay with me and you will observe how we make ourselves laughably amateur but still enjoy the friendly indulgence of other climbers.
Our legs are stiff and eyelashes nearly blown off. We have hiked over the Glyders in a freezing mist, past the spiky rocks up there all covered with feathery rime ice, boots crunching through a thin layer of frozen snow and hail. From there, we crossed over to Tryfan and scrambled down the knee-jarring North Ridge. Next day, we tried to complete the full circuit of the High Carneddau but omitted one of the peaks on account of the wind. The gusts were blowing people over. They were lying on the ground to avoid being swept off the ridge. This morning we are hoping for something more gentle.
Little Tryfan is guarded by a family of goats. This is the kid. There is no one else there. The snow has gone. A winter sun is rising on the far side of the rock, so there is at least the promise of a warmer day.
Here is a shot from a couple of days before, when conditions were bleaker, to give you an idea of the lie of the land. The slab has an easy route up to the front arête, from a metre or so in, then along the ridge to simple ground, and several other lines directly up the face on both sides of the central gash.
I pour out a pile of gear from my pack, don the harness and start clipping on a few useful items: cams, nuts, hexes, slings, belay device and some quickdraws. We tie on and I lead the way towards the arête, inserting as much protection as I can, just for the practice.
As you can see there is no shortage of cracks. In fact Little Tryfan offers a nice way to start a series of scrambles up to one of the summits of Tryfan itself, jamming big boots into any of the plentiful holes and indentations on offer.
So it isn't long before a party of about six scramblers hoof their way past us. On one side, you have two stiff-legged, creaky climbers, messing around with ropes and other tackle, inching their way up an easy slab (us), while on the other you see a group of lusty mountain folk walking up on all fours with no protection at all.
Miffed? Nous? Not at all. This lot know what they are doing, have clearly been here many times before and, from a quick chat, are obviously expert climbers to boot. They are even complimentary about our placings. There you go: people on the rock tend to be supportive and helpful. There is no point in being embarrassed. Try to climb within your abilities, fitness, recent experience and current level of confidence.
Here is James after the descent, in front of what I previously called the gash, which cuts the slab in half. The whole business of walking up from the road, climbing one route, and getting down, has taken us nigh on three hours.
But, look, Little Tryfan is a beautiful spot, especially out of season, and a wonderful place to check your skills. It leans at a kindly angle, has plenty of protection and, if you have time, lots of different lines.
More people have arrived. In summer you'd expect a crowd here
I think conditions will still be quite testing higher up in the mountains, slippery and cold. Little Tryfan offers a fun little trip on a winter's day.
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