bloomability

Ten miles, altogether. Four hours, roundtrip. A measley 3,560 feet at the top; we laughed (silently, of course) to call such land a mountain. But that was before the rain, before the wind, before the cold. Seventeen of us began at the trailhead, only eight made the summit.

The storm had been gathering a good hour into our ascent, but we waved it off. We were only near Mt. Snowdon for a day; we weren't going to waste the chance. A fourth of our party had deserted only a quarter mile in, eyeing the grey clouds as their perfect excuse to turn back. The rest left us just past halfway, when the going got tough and the first rain began to fall. Within minutes we were enveloped.

I've always wanted to walk on the clouds; thing is, they're rather . . . wet. And these ones were temperamental, too. The rain thrashed all about us, the winds were picking up speed. On either side of the trail were craggy drops into the white oblivion, the heathered hills and slate mountain face obscured in heavy mists. My raincoat was nipped in tightly by then, but there was no help for the rest of me. I was satched, very nearly from head to toe.

It was unrelenting, but we were laughing. What a glorious adventure! What a true story! At the top we unfurled the Welsh flag and toasted the white sky, Andrea and I echoing our favorite Peter Lombardy Guthrie the Third in our triumphant shout. "Libera!" we yelled, arms open to the rain, "Sono libera, libera, libera!" We paused to smile at the storm. "Fantastico, veramente fantastico."

Tom passed out victory biscuits as we ran back to the trail. Dark chocolate, slightly damp from the weather. The storm was picking up in earnest now, and fear of hypothermia began to set in. "Imagine the paperwork!" Tom joked. We ran for base at our own pace, our only goal to make it back, and quick. Eventually, we were each left alone to our own descent.

It was a glorious two hours to think, and to wonder. At times I'd feel the numb void of blank thought begin to press in, welcomed by the cold and hard mantra to run-run-run, and it was those times I'd think of (and thank) my dad. An old email of his tumbled about my mind and I began to plan ahead, counting years in my future as I passed rocks and mountains. Sheep chewed around every corner, a monotonous rhythm unfazed by rain or wind. Night was falling; a thousand feet down the storm began to clear. Stars came out; I threw back my hood. So much time to think, to feel. My heart was full, and I was happy.

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If nothing else, I will take away from my study here the verb To Do. For a long time I've been governed by deep decision-making and carefully devised plan---and while that certainly comes in useful, there are times where that caution has held me back. But these past six weeks . . . well, they've changed that, completely. In London I swung myself up onto a street statue for a photo, thinking only after the deed was done. At Merlin's Cave Tom barely had to suggest I climb a thirty foot rock out in the tide before I was scrambling to the top, my bag left on the beach. I watched the storm gather from the base of Mt. Snowdon, and I did not care. I meant every word I shouted from that summit: Free! Free! I am free!

{more pictures at flickr}