The road less traveled

By Michael Nassar

Sunrise in the Welsh valleys is a bit of a misnomer. The mist lies low like a blanket and distorts the landscape, as if seen through gauze. The dull morning light fashions a scene full of shadows and silhouettes. If mornings are any barometer, the eventual appearance of the sun is not a foregone conclusion. Waiting alone in a gravel lot outside the town of Abergavenny, near the border of England, I am staring into this dreamscape that counts for dawn in Wales. I have come here to clear my head. More than that: I have come here to find balance.

I am about to meet the strangers who will be my companions on a nine-day, 100-mile walk from Holy Mountain to Bethlehem, christening a new path traversing Brecon Beacons National Park. The sky begins to brighten, highlighting the rising mist and fallen stones of an abbey in the distance. It’s all a little dramatic, almost too well constructed; yet it perfectly suits my sense of the theatrical. The first of the cars turns into the lot, and I know, taking in a deep, deep-breath, that I have come to where I need to be.

We are a fairly large group of walkers: 19, plus one dog. It occurs to me that perhaps this is not going to be the best situation for quiet reflection, but before I have a chance to second-guess myself we are done with the pleasantries and heading straight up the steep incline of Holy Mountain (named, perhaps, for the number of times you’ll find yourself stopping to gasp for air, invoking the name of the Lord). It quickly becomes difficult to remain sociable and mobile at the same time. I pass a woman twice my age and struggle to mumble a few words. “I will talk to you later,” she says with a chirp and a smile, “right now I am trying to breathe.” I can only nod. My ears are buzzing with the intensity of the effort, and it is only hours later that I realize she wasn’t speaking Welsh.

“We’ve got about another 45 minutes to the top, and then it’s just another bump before lunch,” shouts Rob Knowles, the leader of the walk. I’m panting twice as hard as the dog, who is continually doubling back to nudge us along, as if we are sheep. I find that once I stop staring at the number of people ahead of me and focus on my immediate path, I fall into a light rhythm, stepping first with my left foot while breathing in, following with the right while exhaling. It widens my stance so I feel the effort not just in my calves but from hip to heel, becoming more sure-footed in the process.

When we reach the peak, it is carpeted with heather and exposed to the elements, though the air is completely still. The curtain of mist has evaporated. I’ve not managed to take in the views until now, having spent the hours trying to not embarrass myself, so the effect is magnified. The sky is gunmetal grey, the hills and valleys an endless spread of concentrated greens: jade, forest, lime, bottle.

Gulping water, I can see far in the distance two hills nestled side by side, imposing and impressive. “That’s Pen y Fan, the highest point in southern Wales,” a woman tells me, pouring water for her dog. “We’ll be there in three days.” Three of us compare pedometers and realize that we’ve racked up about five miles.

As we descend into the valley and approach our second “bump” of the day, a number of people use their walking sticks. I’d wondered why they hadn’t used them on the way up, but the man next to me explains, as if reading my mind, that the sticks are used more for balance than for leverage, taking the stress off of tender joints. I’ve two bum knees, and they get a little wobbly heading downhill; the grass is slick, and the mountain runoff has turned the path to mud. I make a mental note to find a stick back in town.

Once we settle down for lunch I tell my new friends that in America this would not be considered a walk at all, but a full-on hike. Everybody laughs, not only because I am a good 20 years younger than most of them, but because in the UK walking per se is not considered an active pursuit. They laugh because the majority of them are serious walkers, or ramblers, addicted to not only the outdoors but also the myriad benefits that come from such extended vigorous exercise: increased stamina, mental clarity and joint stability to name but a few beyond the obvious cardiovascular benefits. I enjoy an occasional hike and walk a few miles in the course of my daily routine, but collectively this group has a few thousand miles on me, and I am humbled. I’m also fairly exhausted and very aware of the ache in my hips and the growing discomfort in my lower back. I wonder if anyone’s carrying Advil but push the thought away.

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