Hiking in Wales: Hypothermia - small Mistake, serious Consequences.

We are sitting in our car at the hiking car park and I need to take a deep breath—and we haven't even started walking yet. Roads in Wales are an adventure in itself. Apart from a few bigger highways, there are almost only single-lane narrow roads, often lined on both sides by six foot high hedges or earth walls stretching for several hundred yards without any turn-outs. Oncoming traffic? Possible at any time, sometimes in the form of tractors. Let somebody pass? No idea where. Dolphin therapy necessary? Hell yeah.

On the way to the trailhead in Brecon Beacons National Park, I steer our rental car four miles over partly absurdly steep, single-lane roads covered in slick wet fall leaves. It doesn't matter whether you drive on the right or left side here, because there is only one lane anyway, and the main goal is to avoid driving into a bush or rolling down a mountain while trying to let oncoming traffic pass.  

It's November and we want to go hiking in Wales. Because it's raining all day on the coast today, we are driving into the mountains to hike to two lakes that lie in basins formed during the last ice age. Llyn y Fan Fawr and Llyn y Fan Fach. Here, too, is supposed to be brief light rain around noon, but we'll manage that. 
Aren't we?

As harmless as the hike begins between green hills next to a small river, things quickly get out of hand. All because I'm too lazy for just a moment. Because I underestimate the situation, despite everything we've already experienced. A story about the forces of nature, ignorance, icy winds, loss of control, panic, and how I would have been completely screwed if I had been alone out there.

When we set off, it is cloudy and about 50°F. Sheep graze on the steep slopes of the hills next to the creek. Sheep in Wales are tougher than nails, as my husband says. But they also have lots of wool. Just like me. Several layers of base shirt, hoodie, and windbreaker jacket. Since we're going uphill right away, I quickly warm up. And since it sucks when your clothes get wet with sweat (even wool shirts can become uncomfortable and cool at some point), I take off my hoodie after a short time and stuff it into my backpack. My backpack is actually pretty cool, but I hate having to peel off the cumbersome rain cover just to get something in or out. Plus, the hip belt of the backpack goes right over the side pockets of my windbreaker jacket, where I keep my cell phone and camera, and it is always a total hassle until everything is back in place so I can still get to my devices despite the belt. After several minutes of fussing around, everything is finally stowed away, I put my backpack back on, and we continue on our way. The treeless landscape is deserted and beautiful. Soon we arrive at the first of the two lakes. The mountain peaks in the background are shrouded in a layer of thick clouds, and the water of the lake looks gray-blue and cold. The whole landscape feels like a painting, and its barren beauty reminds me of Iceland.

“Let's definitely continue on to the second lake,” I say, and my husband agrees. We trudge along a small canal and continue uphill through grassy hills and gusts of wind. As we walk through a wall of fog, we are briefly sprayed with icy mist, but after a few minutes it stops. A huge, round valley basin opens up in front of us, around which the hiking trail winds like a tiny shoelace. I feel very small – such a great feeling in such magnificent nature. Small streams and waterfalls run down into the valley from the invisible peaks in the clouds above us. Fluffy moss cushions lie at the edge of the path. Because the path flattens out here, we don't use as much energy as we did on the slope, and I start to feel a little chilly. But do I really want to pull my hoodie out of my backpack and fiddle with the rain cover and hip belt for minutes on end? Nope. I'm sure it will go uphill again soon and then I'll be warm again. 
We trudge on. A gray cloud emerges from a valley ahead of us, looking like a freighter in the sky. Impressive!

Then we turn into the valley and suddenly sharp rain lashes our faces. Phew. It prickles on our skin like tiny ice needles. The wind picks up from gusts to a roaring storm. Because the ground is getting muddier and swampier, I concentrate hard on not stumbling or slipping. I hardly notice that I'm getting colder and colder. It's only when we reach another hill with even more icy wind and pelting rain that I realize I'm shivering. I can also barely feel my hand on my walking stick. “How far is it to the lake?” I ask. Maybe it will stop raining there and we can have a picnic, because I'm starting to get hungry, too.

0.2 miles, say my husband and the map. “Oh, that's nothing, we'll just push through now that we've already fought our way through all this,” I reply, my teeth almost chattering. There's a hill over there, and if we climb it, I'm sure I'll get warmer. I should have taken that damn hoodie out of my backpack before we got trapped in this icy downpour. 45 minutes ago, when I first felt a little chilly and was too lazy to do so. But getting it out now, taking off my windbreaker jacket, and putting it on underneath would just get all my clothes soaking wet. There's no shelter here, no trees, no rocks to hide behind. I feel like a window with rain pelting against it.

Of course, the storm doesn't end at the second lake. The best part: we can't even see the damn lake because it's so foggy. We just take a quick look at the basin where it's supposed to be and immediately turn back. 

“I'm so hungry,” I whisper. The last of the adrenaline that somehow carried me to the second lake is gone. I'm freezing cold. I need energy. Anything. My husband takes out two protein bars and we stand with our backs to the rain and eat. When I try to put the bar wrapper in my jacket pocket, I realize that my fingers are no longer working. All fine motor skills are gone. I can neither open the zipper nor crumple the paper. Somewhat desperate, I hand it to my husband: “Here, you take it.“

After another 0.1 miles, I'm so cold that I can't cope anymore. The rain has eased off a little. “I have to put this hoodie on. Now,” I say, trying to take my backpack off my shoulders. I can't. I can't even feel the textture of the fabric of the backpack on my palms. It's as if my hands are two useless stumps. I drop the backpack on the ground, breathe warm air on my hands, and jump around.

“Is everything okay?” my husband calls from a distance. No, nothing is okay, I want to scream. Don't panic, Sarah, my inner voice calls. I laboriously push the rain cover off the backpack with my wrists and, with a lot of willpower, somehow pull my hoodie out of the backpack. Then I fiddle with the zipper and buttons of my rain jacket and stand there for a moment in just my base layer shirt in the biting wind. It feels like I'm breathing in fire, but in the form of sharp ice. I manage to get one sleeve of the hoodie on myself, but it takes forever. I have no feeling in either hand and the rest of my body is now cooling down rapidly. “Help!” I finally call out to my husband, who immediately realizes that I'm not joking. I want to cry. I'm standing helplessly in a thin wool shirt in the storm and can't put on the only protection that will keep me from freezing completely.

I've never experienced anything so crazy, not even in Alaska. Start working again!, I silently scream at my hands. But they don't obey. My body shuts down. Hypothermia. I've read about its dangers so many times—and now it was here. Just like that. Not at the North Pole, not after hours of hiking through snow, not at thirty degrees below zero. No, here in Wales, on a day that was supposed to be mostly cloudy and 50°F. I try to grab the zipper of my hoodie, but I can't get a hold of it, I can't even feel it.
My husband grabs it, slips the other sleeve over my arm, then the windbreaker, and zips everything up.  

For the next minutes I hop around, swinging my arms, and we hike back cross-country, taking the fastest route back to the car. After a while, the feeling returns. Painful and hot. All I can think about is the heater in the car and a pot of tea.

When we arrive at the parking lot, I can feel the car keys in my pocket again. What if I had been alone and couldn't have gotten my warm jackets on and zipped up? What if I hadn't even been able to press the SOS button on my satellite phone?

On the way back, it's not the narrow single-lane roads that are on my mind, but one thought: I almost got myself into serious trouble. Because of a little laziness. Because of a mistake that nature was not willing to forgive.
Be careful out there. Always.

Feel invited to follow our stories, travels, fails, and adventures daily on Instagram: @squirrel.sarah.

Find more hiking trips and nature stories here: 

• The Magic of Seeing and Sea –John Muir Way Scotland
• Horizontal Rain and a Lake above the Ocean: Hiking on the Faroe Islands