writing | Rusty Teeth
Another encounter with the bastard Rhinogs, probably the last wild frontier in Eryri National Park.
It had been a cold night and condensation clung like beads to the inner sheet of the tent. I’d packed a summer sleeping bag for the trip but it wasn't enough so sleep had been restless as I tried to keep warm.
It was still early but the sun was starting to appear over the ridge to the east. I shuffled out of my bag, got dressed and climbed out of the tent to see clear neon blue skies, the colour of a glacial stream.
Brewing coffee I heard a noise that shouldn't have been there. Looking east, a few kilometres away, a logging truck barrelled down a track on the side of a hill. The driver had spotted me, the bright red of my jacket a dot against a sea of green and yellow grassland, and was honking the horn.
I was in the wilder parts of the Rhinogs, a place not many people venture to because of how inaccessible it can be, and there was a 16-tonne truck at 6 in the morning. The distance between us seemed to close, and I waved as he disappeared down the track into the woods. That sliver of human connection had made the previous day all worth it.
The Rhinogs continue to kick my arse. From a distance, they look harmless, but up close they bare their fangs and give you more than you planned. Away from the paths and the deeper into the landscape you venture, you are drawn in, chewed up and spat out by the many bad-tempered traps it has set.
Progress can be slow and treacherous. One minute you’re comfortable and then the next you're trying not to snap an ankle in obscure hidden rocks covered in thick tufts of grass.
Formed from hard sedimentary rock in the Cambrian age, successive ice ages have eroded and weathered the Rhinogs leaving valleys and peaks, with the core formed from hard-wearing greywackes.
The name Rhinogydd derives from two of the peaks, and they are far less known due to their rugged nature and unfriendly approach. The Rhinogs are more isolated and wilder than their cousins in the north of the national park, but in the last few years, many more people have found their way to this area looking for solitude and adventure.
I first came to the Rhinogs with Sally in 2017, who wanted to explore the area. I was eager to do the same and spend more time with her as our relationship blossomed.
Our walk-in was tough even back then, hours of bushwhacking a route through gorse, bramble and bracken interspersed with boulder fields. Going up and then doubling back when it became impassable, we eventually gained the main ridge. At which point it was getting late so we pitched our tent on the col and suffered a cold night with frozen boots in the morning.
The walkout was even grimmer and despite our best efforts, we never really went back until I was in the area and decided on a solo overnight five years later.
The walk up from Talsarnau station on the west side of the Rhinogs was a pleasant affair. I steadily gained height up to Llyn Eiddwemawn before making my way south under the watchful eye of the hulking mass of Moel Ysgyfarnogod.
Weathered to the bone, I imagine with a light day bag there’d be plenty of fun to be had up there amongst its terraces, but with a heavy rucksack, I just wanted to crack on to Llyn Cwm Bychan.
Leaving the green pastures behind me I took a shortcut and crossed into a no man's land of boulder fields. The horizon edge where rock met sky looked like a rusty saw blade, the nicks in rock like broken teeth on a saw. The twin summits of Rhinog Fach and Fawr loomed large, layers of granite slab rising high and intimidating.
The clouds were also beginning to cast a menacing shadowplay over the lower slopes, dark whispers forming as I reached Cwm Brychan and the Roman Steps for a break.
After a short spell I carried on, passing through an ancient woodland of large oaks and birch, the floor carpeted in lush thick moss. I could make out the shapes of rock swallowed up under a sea of green, having likely been dumped there millions of years previously.
The ice age carved out the Rhinogs, creating deep passes and the bwlch which I was heading to now. The Roman Steps had been a medieval packhorse route through the Rhinogs connecting a trail between Chester and Harlech Castle.
Weathered stone rose on either side and in places I was funnelled into narrow gaps where I could trace the weathered cracks with my fingers, rain and frost working their geological magic, weakening and splitting rock away.
Stopping at the bwlch I spotted a patch of anemone growing out from under some boulders, white star-shaped petals, yellow stamen and a green stigma in the centre. A dash of beautiful colour amongst so much bland grey.
The descent down the other side of the col saw my view opening out to woodland and a nature reserve for kilometres around. Tuning into the sounds, I could hear a ring ousel calling, meadow pipits and skylarks and once on the level ground, I disturbed what I thought could have been a merlin while tramping through a patch of long grass.
I planned to contour around to Llyn y Bi and camp for the evening. It looked easy from the vantage point where I was positioned, and that was when the Rhinogs got me. I hand-railed a fence, easy this, then I got cocky and started to move over open ground to try and make up some time.
Before long I was on boggy ground but carried on as I could see where I wanted to be. Before too long I was getting dragged down and starting to cross into another hidden boulder field.
I had been lulled into a false sense of security, and any cockiness had drained as I struggled to not fall into a hole. Stopping on a rock outcrop I assessed and decided to retreat and head to an area of flat ground rather than persevere with my plan.
I was now searching for somewhere to pitch my tent and call it a day, just be done with the war of attrition I found myself in, and figure out a way tomorrow.
On the flat ground, I found no options but spotted a nearby quarry area on the map. I looked across the open ground and rolled the dice one last time, not really having many other options and slowly made my way.
About 45 minutes later I dumped my bag and dropped to my knees, I'd found a little jewel of a place and fought to get there. It was quiet and flat, and shelter was provided by an old building with a beautiful little stream running through. As wild camps go it was a godsend, an oasis in this wild and remote landscape.
After pitching my tent I explored the old collapsed quarry buildings and piles of old slate, covered in stone crop and lichen. In the distance, I could make out a lodge a few kilometres away. I praised the god of wild camps.
The next morning, after my encounter with the truck, I packed up and headed off. The Rhinogs were not quite done on my walk out. While it was easier terrain, it was flooded in sections and involved big walks around.
You develop a love-hate relationship with the Rhinogs. The rewards should you stray too far are sometimes worth the risk and physical sacrifice, quiet dusks, the calm evenings and lack of people. But every time I walk out I always say I’d never come back but I know I will in a few years, exploring the rough edges of the last wild frontier of North Wales.