Welcome Travelers: Snowdon Mountain. Eriyi.

When I was in college, my roommate did her student teaching in Britain. She invited me to come along for Christmas break. I thought she was crazy. Broke up with my boyfriend (well, he broke up with me, but who keeps track of those things) and borrowed some money from my younger brother, and off I went. We did a three week tour of England, Scotland and Wales and I thought it was fantastic. Traveling by airplane for the first time that I could remember (I think I flew before when I was five). New Year's in Trafalgar Square.The worst snow in 15 years in York. Cab rides, haircuts, pubs and cider and rain, hitch-hiking, hiking and cold. Very cold. And it was fantastic.

Arriving in Wales was the same as the rest. We met lovely people, checked in at the hostel and planned our three days. Pen-y-Pass and Bangor. It was nice. It was England, but it wasn't. It was Wales.

The feelings came suddenly and overwhelmingly. I was in Wales. But it was much more than the excitement of a European vacation. It wasn't that typical excitement that you get being in a new place, seeing new things, tasting new foods. It was Wales, but it was more than Wales.

It was spiritual, and even that description is wrong. It was blue sky and it was brilliant and it was something I'd never felt before. I felt as though I'd returned home. And I was home. Only I'd never been before and never expected to be again, and I'm not even Welsh. But I felt it. And ever since then, I've been (Welsh in my mind that is), and I've wanted nothign but to go back.

And finally, in 2009, I did go back. A gift. The gift of Wales, and I'll share what I went back for, even though what I found was much more than I'd left.

I thought I was looking for what I'd found in 1987. Snowdon had played an enormous role in my mind's eye of what I'd experienced and what I was looking for. And so, when I returned in 2009, I thought I was looking for the mountain. I wanted to climb it again. Should I return to Pen-y-Pass? Could I stay at the same hostel? I anticipated that this would be my last time; would it seem the same as the first time?

I had planned on Snowdon mid-week. Wednesday. I hadn't planned on meeting a friend in Bangor for dinner on Tuesday, and walking up a very, very steep hill and hurting my knee and having the most serious panic attack that I'd had since I got off the airplane and drove on the wrong side of the road (by Britain's standards.)

I could not get in my rental car and drive to the mountain. I couldn't do it, and I thought I would cry. And this is not a case where the mountain can actually come to me.

One of the people staying at the hostel offered to take me up to Llanberis. He and his daughter were driving there, then taking the train up and climbing back down. Did I want to go with them? I didn't. For so many reasons I didn't want to go with them, but I did. Once the decision to go along with the Dutch pair was made, my panic subsided. I was a little nervous, but I knew I'd made the right decision.

I got to Llanberis glad I didn't drive up those narrow, winding roads; we parted company at the train queue and I wandered. And I stared. And the mountain was there. It was perfect. The air was cool, but not cold at all. The sky was clear as you'll see below. The sky, the sky was the most brilliant blue and the clouds perfectly floated across the tops of the peaks. I was so glad I came and so glad I got the ride. It was beautiful, and it was this day that I realized that I wasn't looking for what I had in 1987. I was looking for now. I was looking for me, and there I was on the bus stop in Llanberis, staring and grinning like a madman and loving it.

Now, the bus ride, now that was something else, but that is another story.