The Last Hillwalker by John D Burns

Author:John D Burns [Burns, John D]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780995595811
Published: 2017-05-30T23:00:00+00:00

8

North and South

In early January, darkness descends at speed in the Scottish mountains.

Tonight, as clouds block the waning moon and obliterate the stars, the lightless void consumes us. In this blackness Joe and I inch our way along the narrow ridge of Stob Coire Sgreamhach, occasionally glimpsing the ghostly white outlines of the hills around us. We have just completed our first winter climb and are both exhilarated by the achievement but humbled by the realisation of our incompetence. We should have been back in the Red Squirrel Bunkhouse hours ago, eaten a meal, got out of our hill clothes and be thinking of heading for that Mecca of Scottish climbing, the Clachaig Inn.

The valley of Glen Coe, however, remains a long way below us as we follow the bobbing lights of our head torches, their beams throwing patches of light onto the snow in an ocean of darkness. With the climb behind us, the descent should be easy, even if it will be a long plod in soft snow.

Joe is muffled in a balaclava beneath his climbing helmet. From a few yards behind me he calls, “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” I turn and blind him with my head lamp.

Joe casts about the hillside. His meagre torch beam fades away in the darkness after less than twenty feet.

“There was a cry,” he insists, but I can hear nothing.

Moments later three pinpricks of light appear from the gloom. Two men and a young woman come hurrying down the slope towards us.

“Is this the way down?” one of the young men asks in a brown-sauce-and-pickled-eggs Brummy accent.

“Yes, this is it,” I confirm, confident I know our position. Joe and I turn to head off down to where my old Marina van is waiting by the side of the A82.

The young man consults the rest of his party for a moment, and then calls after us, “Can we come down with you?”

Instantly, I realise what has happened. Our climbing helmets, ice gear and rope create the illusion that we are more competent than we actually are. They think that we are experts. I’m fairly certain we know little more than they do, possibly less. It occurs to me, however, that explaining this to them right now, high on a mountainside in the pitch dark, is probably not too wise.

I respond with a nonchalant shrug. “Yes, of course, no problem.”

Secretly I’m rather pleased that they are with us; a party of five is a lot more secure than a party of two. As we head down towards the glen the wind picks up and snow begins to fall. Higher, the slope was icy and our crampons were an advantage, but as the hillside becomes covered in soft snow the spikes on our feet begin to trap the snow and become less effective. When the snow is not compacted crampons collect huge snowballs, known as ‘balling up’ in the trade, and quickly become useless.

“I think we should take our crampons off,” I suggest. Everyone agrees, so we divest ourselves of the ironmongery.

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