It is October 1972 and I accept an invitation to go up a hill. I had been up hills before as a youngster, not that I remember much about them. What do I need, my rugby gear will not do. A pair of bendy boots and a Ventile jacket, both purchased in Aberdeen, I think the shop was Andersons, not sure. The hill was Lochnagar. I have vague memories of a Royal Shooting lodge, sweating up a rocky slope, Meikle Pap, then my first view over the edge to the black lochan nestling below an awesome amphitheatre of broken crags and cliffs that seemed to touch the sky. I had never seen anything like it and couldn’t take my eyes off it. Three weeks later it was Glas Maol and Creag Leacach, again faint memories of a plateau, a wooden hut where shelter was taken to eat amidst a blizzard, then a rocky ridge and wonderful views onto the Devil’s Elbow.
It was three years before I again ventured out. This time it was with a Mountain Rescue Team in the north of Scotland. The team was trying out prospective rescue team members. My memories, not so vague this time, are of a pair of heavy duty ‘shit catchers’, borrowed from a friendly stalker. By the end of the day they felt about a ton in weight, not a good thing as we trailed through deep heather in a wet cold day. Oh the mountain used for my fitness test, Meall Gorm, in the Fannichs. If I thought the walk in from the Ullapool road to Loch Li, followed by a steep ascent onto the ridge went on forever, I had not experienced the interminable trudge back out, dragged back by heavy duty plus fours. My test was semi successful, I did not get in and was told to get more time on the hill. Oh, the semi bit, I survived. A dram or two in the Aultguish was memorable.
I had done four Munro’s by then and didn’t even know.
I took the advice and over the next few years I trudged over various mountains, all the time getting more ‘hill fit”. My experience, in terms of becoming fit for the hills, is of long breathless pulls up never ending muddy grass. The ridges and the tops however always eased away my pain and I pressed on. By this time I had given up all hope of International honours at rugby, not that anyone else ever thought I had them in the first place. So it was the mountains for me. I am not sure why, many reasons probably, influences scarcely recalled, but a desire to keep fit and the expectation of these exhilarating ridges and summits.
An important influence, well remembered, was standing on the south terracing of Brockville, the home of Falkirk Football Club with two old supporters and friends. Both had spent years tramping hills all over Scotland, they had little idea which hills, but they had perfect memories of the lochs, as their passion was fishing. You get a clear view of the Ochils from that terracing, so many hill discussions took place, not while the game was in full flow. One brought me a treasured book to read. During my devouring of that book I read an account of Ben Alligin and the Horns of Alligin, I was transfixed, there was something mystical about it. Was it named after a Greek God or perhaps a mythical warrior. Alligin was therefore my motivation. My awareness of Munro’s had begun and I promised myself that if I were ever to go over them all, 'The Horns' would wait until last and if I did not get there, then they would remain a mystery to me. I kept that promise.
My experiences over the interim have been many and various and all good. Member of a Mountain Rescue Team for some years, including spells as training officer and secretary. Two crossings of Scotland in the ‘Ultimate Challenge”, classic rock climbs like Agag’s Grove and Savage Slit, ascent of Mont Blanc, bothy nights, crossing rivers at midnight, inversions, Brocken Specters, wonderful companions and tall stories.
Before finishing I have three completely different moments that will always stay with me;
After a glorious winter day my companion and I were heading along a narrow, steep sided track when we were faced with a large flock of sheep going in the opposite direction. We, being responsible mountaineers immediately took to the bank and sat still, so as not to disrupt the sheep. Behind them was the shepherd with his five four legged helpers, or was it his four five, no I was right first time. Anyway, there we sit on the bank blethering to the shepherd who was below our lofty perch. His dogs kept up a crazy pace running hither and yon. I was aware of a hot feeling on my right shoulder and thinking, I know Lifa vests are good, but not that good, I casually looked round and nearly had my right eye poked out by the cocked rear left leg of a collie as it peed on my back.
Another interesting day was in the Glen Lyon hills, again in winter. As my companion and I ascended a ridge we heard a sharp report followed by a deep whirring noise as a bullet passed over our heads. At the end of our day we were intercepted by a well known person who after some heated discussion was persuaded by his companion to get back into their car, as our conversation was about the shooting and perhaps he was saying too much.
A balmy May day finds me on the Skye ridge sprawled out in a seriously precarious spot looking over Rum, when I had one of those moments that I don’t think I have the skill or vocabulary to adequately describe. I, for a few moments, was in the perfect place. Destiny arranged that I be in exactly this place at this time. For that short time I was complete, there was no other place in the universe I could, or should have been. It was one of the calmest moments in my life.
To October 2002, I am a smidgen older, a bit slower and I am facing 'The Horns'. It is a dreich, blizzardy day and wet snow clings to every ledge. It is 'super dangereux.' I savour every moment and like so many days before, braving out the storm brings its rewards. The black clouds part and stunning views emerge. I stand on the summit of my last Munro. I have many thoughts amongst which is of these two old friends living out their dreams on the terraces of Brockville Park. Without them this privilege may never have been possible and I thank them.
I remember why I do this and why I will always do it. It does not need explaining, explanations can devalue, our mountains do not need explaining, they can speak for themselves, just get out and listen to them.
No comments:
Post a Comment