Glyder Fawr & Glyder Fach

It was a sunny morning in Dolgellau, our home base for the past couple of days; today we would head northwest to explore the Glyders.

Feeling daunted by the description of the terrain (the “Devil's Kitchen,” in particular), I was more inclined to join two others for an abbreviated version of the adventure. But my comrades were fully confident that I could do it, so here we go ...

Our guide shared a legend about a prince's son being drowned in Llyn Idwal by his jealous uncle, after which no bird will fly over the lake. [I did spot two Canada geese in the water (they're everywhere!?), but perhaps they waddled in from the shoreline.]

Before we reached the trickiest part, a couple of young guys passed us, heading down. (Thankfully, we would not be returning this way.) Shaking his head, and moving faster over the rocks than I ever would (in casual shoes, no less), the second one remarked “Let's go for a walk, he said!” At least I knew what I'd signed up for.

The Devil's Kitchen is that v-shaped notch to the right of center in the next photo. With the rockfall fanning out below. Which is where we were going.

Being in the middle of the group allowed me to capture a clear perspective on a section of the climb up Devil's Kitchen. Having handed off my poles to our gracious guide, I'd ascended (more or less) on all fours. I'd decided that the key was to focus, focus, focus. And not look down.

I'm happy to report that we all made it, unscathed, and paused to admire the view on our way to the summit of Glyder Fawr.

To appreciate the scale (and the challenge) of this walk, look for the tiny figure in the field of rocks in the next photo. (That's me, thanks to one of the members of our group who snapped the photo.)

I can imagine how legends about giants might have developed. Thousands of years ago, long after the glaciers had receded, our ancient ancestors could not have conceived how these massive slabs of rock came to be strewn about.

Clear skies rewarded us with a panoramic view. Having ascended the highest peak in the Glyders, we trekked onward to visit a second one.

Early on, our guide had surveyed us about any physical limitations or issues we might have. My ankle was better, but still feeling not quite 100%; when I shared that I had a “cranky ankle” she exclaimed “A crankle!” without missing a beat. The ankle would soon be forgotten on this hike, as I developed a sharp pain on the outside of one knee. All the climbing, and babying my ankle, may have spawned a new problem. I was trailing the rest of the group; putting weight on my bent knee was excruciating, so I was essentially dragging that leg along.

Our next destination was Glyder Fach (with, of course, a bit more climbing). It was windy up there, so we'd all bundled up.

My favorite feature (so far) was Castell y Gwynt (aptly, “Castle of the Wind”), atop Glyder Fach.

We also visited the iconic Cantilever Stone, but surprisingly only one intrepid member of the group chose to clamber up for a photo op. Out of the question, for me; it would take a full-body agility that I didn't have, at that point. We crossed a boulder field and began our descent.

The others pulled ahead (a far cry from my pace yesterday!) and wouldn't come into sight again until about a mile and a half later, near the end of our route. I had begun to wonder whether I could make it down under my own power. Our guide pulled a knee strap out of her pack, which unfortunately didn't have any effect.

We covered 6.2 miles, with some 2,400 feet of elevation gain—most of that (~1,960 feet) over a distance of ~1.4 miles. I believe it's safe to say that this will stand as the most challenging hike of my life—even if you factor out the knee pain.

Three more days of hiking lie ahead. Tomorrow, at least, promises to be mellow.

Cadair Idris

When I did, finally, do a closer reading of the itinerary for this tour, I'd wondered if the details for each day were accurate. Because, if they were, I'd signed up for the most difficult hiking I've ever done.

Today would be calibration day. We were headed for a ridge touched by the clouds, taking the “easiest” route to the summit of Cadair Idris: the winsomely named Pony Path.

There were many other walkers on the trail, this being a weekend day. I was grateful for my hiking poles and boots, and was stunned to see many folks wearing casual footwear. On our way up, we crossed paths with a woman on her way down, shaking her head and muttering about this being quite not the way she'd wanted to celebrate her 50th birthday.

There were no signs along the trail; follow the path of rocks (and our leader). I'm sure the rocks are placed to combat erosion, but they're also hard on one's feet (and often command close attention).

By the time we met the clouds, I'd bundled up with all my layers: rain pants over hiking pants, fleece gloves, fleece vest under my insulated rain jacket, and neck gaiter pulled up over a fleece cap topped by my jacket's hood. When one of the women in our group mentioned that she was cold, our guide pulled a spare jacket out of her (enormous) backpack—our own Mary Poppins with a fresh take on that magical bottomless carpet bag!

Legend has it that if you spend the night on this mountain, you will find yourself either mad or a poet when you awaken. As I picked my way through fields of scree, I considered that I might have already gone mad.

Pay attention: Every. Step. Matters.

As the summit came into view, we learned that our guide has one important rule: Everyone gets there at the same time.

It was cold. It was windy. There was no view. We were proud of ourselves. And hungry.

One member of our group had chosen to huddle in a well-placed semi-circle of piled stones, rather than reach the summit. We joined her there to eat the bagged lunches we'd carried, sheltered from the wind.

Eager to drop below the clouds, we spread out across the scree. I surprised everyone (including myself) by apparently channeling my inner mountain goat and leading the way, while our guide hung back with one of our more tentative comrades.

Some trail segments seemed to have a softer, somewhat less rocky parallel path. I imagine we were meant to stay on the rocks, but it was hard not to seek a little respite now and then.

I did manage to find a spot of color near the end of our hike.

And yes,the details for this hike matched up with what I recorded: we traveled 5.7 miles, with some 2,300 feet of elevation gain overall. And since this was an up-and-back-down hike, that means we climbed 2,300 feet in half that distance. [Yikes!]

Tomorrow promises to be ... harder.

Precipice Walk (Llwybr Cynwch)

Our group would rendezvous at the train station in Chester this morning, and by the time our guide arrived we'd self-assembled and were happily chatting. I'd figured that it wouldn't be difficult to spot the others: backpack-wearing, luggage-toting folks loitering in the seating area. What I didn't expect was an all-woman group!

Cycling through Wales, eight years ago, I was introduced to a place I'd wished I could explore more. I just might have to come back here, I'd thought.

Then a message landed in my inbox last August: Explore the Myths and Mountains of Eryri (Snowdonia). [Sign. Me. Up.]

Our first “walk” (translation: hike) was the Precipice Walk. Now you can begin to see why I'd hoped to see more of Snowdonia ...

The tour's itinerary described this hike as “mellow;” evidently choosing to omit the trail's name (lest we be intimidated).

A native thistle offered a welcome pop of color on a gloomy day, while sheep hunkered down not far from a crumbling circle of stones that might once have provided shelter for shepherds.

In the distance, late-afternoon light reflected off the channel leading to the Irish Sea. Along the trail, gorse blooms spread a little sunshine.

Our group was getting on well: one Canadian, six Americans (including three sisters!), and our English guide. Our pace was comfortable over our 3.5-mile loop, but the remaining walks promise to be more challenging.

We're the inaugural group(!) for this tour—a fact I'd overlooked in that email message last year. All I'd needed to see, then, was “Snowdonia.” As the date for the trip grew closer and I studied the actual itinerary, I began to worry that I might be in over my head ...

Chester

Where in the world is pep?

After one long plane ride, two rides on the Underground, and two British Rail trains: Chester, England. Somehow, the whole journey went smoothly—thanks to the station agents who helped me make sense of my tickets along the way. [I have a hunch that using their phone app would have been simpler. Next time ...]

I'd chosen a hotel for its proximity to the train station, and it was unexpectedly lovely.

I'm here because an interesting tour opportunity caught my attention last year and a proper holiday was long past due. By pure happenstance, some family members were also in the UK and shuffled their plans to join me here for a day or two.

I convinced them that Chester was worth exploring, and we spent some time meandering through the city. A walk along the ancient city walls afforded views near and far, with trees and buildings tucked up close.

We had the good fortune to be the only people on a tour of Chester Cathedral led by a guide with an encyclopedic knowledge of the building's history and detailed features, such as this ceiling boss depicting the murder of Thomas Becket.

Eager to answer questions, he overran the allotted time. [No problem.]

Tomorrow, the principal adventure begins ...

May Days

May was a month for docent-led hikes, starting with newly-opened trails in the eastern section of Bear Creek Redwoods.

I can imagine hiking this section in cool weather, as the trails are mostly exposed. It will take another visit or two before I'd be comfortable with a route; there seemed to be many trail junctions, identified only with numbers. I was glad to be following a leader.

My next excursion was to a preserve I may have never explored; if I did hike at Russian Ridge, it was a long, long time ago.

This preserve is outside the “zone” where my my buddies prefer to hike; it's a bit of a drive to get there. But it was worth it. It seemed late for a hike focused on wildflowers, but the higher altitude at Russian Ridge made all the difference.

And with the wildflowers ... butterflies. A silvery blue, in this case, on a pale flax blossom. As usual, I learned a great deal from the volunteer docents.

Speaking of butterflies: My next two docent-led outings were at the familiar Picchetti Ranch Open Space Preserve. Butterflies were the focus of the first visit, but a group (even a small group) is not terribly well-suited to butterfly observing. Quite a few Northern Checkerspots fluttered about and held still for photos, though.

With all the picnic tables occupied at the end of my hike, I was perched on a low fence in the parking lot to enjoy my lunch ... when a Sara orangetip alighted nearby. Was it worth putting my sandwich aside? They typically don't stay put ...

I returned to Picchetti with a docent two days later, this time for the flowers. (White globe lilies, in this case.)

One of the docents leads a hike every year on Memorial Day that starts near the summit of Montebello Road. (Or should I say, near the end of the drivable part of the road.) It's possible to hike here anytime, but access to parking requires a permit.

There were some children on this hike, and they were into it. When the group paused before making the last turn that would take us back to our vehicles, I spotted ants marching in a line, carrying seeds. Perfect! I called the kids over and introduced them to harvester ants.

The marine layer hovered above us, obscuring the Diablo Range to the east. Moffett Field and the southern reaches of San Francisco Bay, as well the suburbs of Silicon Valley, sprawled below us.

May was for hiking (20+ miles), though I did venture out on a couple of easy bike rides (45 miles). My ankle is still not happy, and there is one more May hike ahead. And then, June.

Ready or not, there I will go ...

April Amblings, Part 2

We explored a section of Santa Teresa County Park that was new to me. Not wanting to stress my injured ankle, but also not wanting to skip the hike, I opted to bypass one section of the route. (5.2 miles was enough, for me.) I also thought that, at my slow pace, I might be reunited with the rest of the group along the way.

That didn't happen. They were still way ahead of me, as it turned out. With a couple of folks training for summer backpacking adventures, the pace would have been uncomfortable for me even if I wasn't focused on studying the spring wildflowers. Or other unexpected discoveries, like a clump of freshly-hatched spiders on some blades of grass.

Next up was a leisurely docent-led tour through the area of Bear Creek Redwoods that had been the site of Alma College (and a private estate, before that). Some newly-opened trails in that area afford a view of Lexington Reservoir, to the east.

The route was so short, though, that I crossed over to the other side of the preserve for more of a challenge, finishing with just under four miles. On the way back, I picked up what was probably an old piece of plastic irrigation pipe alongside the trail, for proper disposal at home.

Dismayed about future outings with my weekly hiking buddies, I headed for a preserve I'd been longing to visit: Coyote Ridge. Curious about what I'd find there, I could spend all the time I wanted. [And I did.]

Having plotted the route in advance, I sought to explore the loop in a counter-clockwise direction (to avoid taxing my ankle climbing a steep hill). After checking in with my butterfly pass, I dutifully swept my boots and followed others up the trail. Clockwise.

The vistas were new, though most of the flowers were familiar.

There was abundant grassland, but occasional meadows were dotted with wildflowers. Woodland tidytips were a bright spot on an otherwise gloomy day.

A ranger was idling in the parking lot when I reached the end of my loop; I hadn't noticed that the preserve would close at 4 p.m. I was able to tack on a quick walk along the Overlook Trail and not be the last visitor to exit.

My last notable hike of the month was a return to the Glenwood Open Space Preserve, this time centered on the eastern section.

The pace was friendlier than my last group hike, as we had unfamiliar terrain to negotiate and I wasn't the only one captivated by the wildflowers.

Looking ahead to my own big adventure a month from now, my focus is on hiking rather than biking. Will I really be ready to hike several (hilly) days in a row? And will my ankle have recovered by then?

Flower Power

Like last year, I volunteered for one of the annual wildflower surveys in Sierra Azul. Unlike last year, we found some wildlife, too ...

I rounded a bend to see the rest of the group bunched up on the trail. We were working in a closed area of the preserve, and sometimes find our way blocked by a fallen tree. I knew we had nearly completed our loop, so I was surprised to hear a staff member ask if we were ready to turn around and hike out.

Our obstacle wasn't a tree. Or a rockslide.

It was a standoff with a large rattlesnake, coiled in the middle of the trail.

So, humans, whatcha gonna do? This is my domain.

The aforementioned staff member gently coaxed the reptile to move off the trail (not without rattling in protest), and we edged our way quickly past.

During our lunch break, we'd had a much friendlier wildlife encounter.

Eschewing the abundant blooms, a variable checkerspot found a volunteer's chocolate-coated granola bar more enticing. To the point that she ultimately set it down, the butterfly being in no hurry to flutter away.

We managed to document 119 species in bloom (finding five more than last year). Most were familiar to me, by now; but some were new. Like this lone irisleaf rush I spotted in a meadow. [Yes, that's flowering.]

Or valley tassels.

Friends have been astonished that anyone could find so many different flowering plants, in one place, over the course of a few hours. Then, on a hike, I'll point out something they've walked right past ... like this tiny subterranean clover plant.

Did I see all 119 species? [No. Eighty, give or take.]

No one overlooks our iconic state flower.