21–22 February 1998: It’s a trip I’ll never forget. My first true foray into winter wild camping. I was nineteen, fresh from the routines of university life, feeling equal parts eager and apprehensive. My father, always keen to explore Snowdonia’s quieter corners, chose the Moelwyn range. A region steeped in industrial heritage and overshadowed by more popular peaks to the north. Little did I know this trip like many in the late 1990s would become a defining moment in my journey as a mountaineer.
We parked up in Croesor mid-afternoon, and I can still recall the weight of my rucksack as I hoisted it from the boot. My father led us onto a broad track toward Croesor Quarry, with its haunting slate tips and silent ruins. Initially, the day was surprisingly bright. But as often happens in Snowdonia, conditions changed rapidly. By the time we reached the outskirts of the quarry, hail rattled our jackets.
We pressed on until we found a relatively level patch of ground. We had brought along my trusty Terra Nova Voyager tent. A newer version of the same tent I still use today. We found a pitch and angled the tent to reduce the wind’s impact. Hunkered inside, we cooked dinner while the elements battered the flysheet.
That night, the temperature plummeted. I woke multiple times, trying to tuck myself deeper into my sleeping bag. (What was the sleeping bag company that was absorbed by snug pack beginning with an a!) At one point, I shifted and felt a gentle pressure against the tent wall, which then moved. It turned out to be a sheep, pressing itself against our shelter for warmth. The absurdity of the situation; my father and me inside the tent, the sheep leaning in from outside.
Come morning, a dusting of snow covered the ground. Every breath felt bracing and I remember struggling a little with the cold. My father brewed up as before I stepped outside into the cold.
Our first objective lay ahead: Moel-yr-hydd (648m). The snow was fresh, although beneath it the ground remained boggy. My father, a fountain of knowledge about local history, pointed out rusted tracks and twisted machinery, ghostly remains of the area’s slate-mining heyday.
From Moel-yr-hydd, we continued to Moelwyn Mawr (770m). Each step felt like a true mountaineering experience, a lesson in how savage and beautiful these hills can be when the weather takes charge.
On our return route, we wandered through Dôsydd Quarry, stumbling upon a large slate mine entrance gushing with a fast-flowing stream. We didn’t venture far although even the briefest glimpse carried us back to a bygone era, where slate was king and men carved livelihoods from these rugged hills.
Remarkably, sunshine greeted us for the final leg back to Croesor. My pack, once unbearably heavy, felt lighter. Perhaps I’d adjusted, or perhaps the promise of a warm car had boosted my spirits. Physically spent yet riding a wave of quiet satisfaction, I realised I’d passed a personal milestone. I’d braved winter’s rain, hail, wind, and snow, and discovered an often-overlooked corner of Snowdonia’s wild heart.
To this day, my memories of that weekend remain vivid:
• Wind-lashed tent walls rattling through the night
• Fresh snowfall underfoot, glinting in the early light
• Ancient quarry relics scattered like breadcrumbs across the hills
• And of course, one persistent sheep seeking a share of our makeshift windbreak
Even now, whenever winter approaches, my mind drifts to that campsite and the sense of exhilaration that only Snowdonia in its harsher months can provide.
In end, those two days taught me that despite cold hands and restless nights, winter wild camping offers a rare kind of magic. One that leaves you both humbled by nature’s power and deeply appreciative of its quiet wonders.