The Mountaineering Council of Scotland
Literary Competition 1998
We were encouraged to receive more than usual in terms of the numbers of entries with 11 in the prose category and 8 in the poetry category and sincerely hope that this trend will continue next year. Thanks to all those who entered.
Our thanks go to the judges in this year's competition: Bernard Newman (Editor of "Climber" magazine), Dave Hewitt (Editor of "The Angry Corrie"), Graham Little (past MCofS President), Ingrid Parker (past MCofS Vice President) and Kevin Howett (National Officer).
The winners were :
PROSE CATEGORY:
£100 1ST PRIZE. Congratulations go to Andrew Hilton for his prose entry 'There must be more to it than this'.
£50 2ND PRIZE. Congratulations to Ruaridh Pringle, last year's winner, whose entry is entitled "Good Bones".
3RD PRICE. Congratulations to Simon Richardson for his entry entitled "Enigma."
POETRY CATEGORY:
£50 goes to Hamish Brown for his winning entry 'The Crack' printed below.
1st place winner, Poetry Section: Hamish Brown
|
The Crack The stone cracked, audibly, visibly |
1st place winner, Prose Section: Andrew Hilton
There Must Be More To It Than This
The climber's hand gratefully accepted the offer of the crack and he thrust deep, it was a good width and he tensed his fingers, feeling his glove bite and hold. Straightening his left leg, he pivoted upwards and pulled onto the small ledge, swivelling as he did to sit and gaze outward.
His breath raced from the exertion and he inhaled deeply, satisfied with the completion of the section and eagerly anticipating the final phase - 'the crux!'
However, he knew he was fooling himself, something was missing, it should be better than this - where was the thrill, the exhilaration, the heightened senses, the adrenaline rush?
When his grandfather had died the climber had inherited grandfather's box jot climbing gear, which also included an extensive collection of the climbing literature of the era. Searching for fulfilment in his sterile world the climber had devoured every word, revelling in desperate climbs, in bold risks, glorious climbing moments snatched in terrifying weather, on fragile rock, success against the odds, safety after all had seemed lost. What really gripped him, what really brought him, time and again, to these words, was a search for something more in his own life. These climbers of the twentieth century had been truly alive, they were free - he had never experienced the wild joy at the end of the climb, the indescribable elation of survival, the camaraderie of shared risks and fears. Like everything else today the climber's life was regulated, controlled, risk free and ultimately, hopeless.
The climbing equipment in Grandfather's box was, of course, now obsoleted by technology, but for some strange reason he had been drawn to the shoes - close fitting and brightly coloured, still in reasonable condition. In a rare act of defiance he had stubbornly insisted on using these when he began climbing, the soles gripped much better than the instructors had claimed and, despite the laughter and ridicule, he felt that, in part, his Grandfather's spirit was with him when he climbed.
Sat on the ledge he gazed across the valley. Whilst it was only a kilometre away he was unable to make out the underground area where he had left his vehicle, or the office where he had paid his access fees. The Controller had been surprised by his choice of climb 'nobody climbs the old routes these days', but he knew his grandfather had been there, he had written of it in his diary, how he had struggled on the final pitch. Perhaps it would be here, climbing with his Grandfather's words in his mind, that he would find the elusive satisfactions and elations which he had been seeking ever since he had taken up climbing. It had been a difficult decision. He had only been allotted twenty ascents that year and he had been reluctant to use one of these precious access permits on such an old fashioned route. He was quite capable of climbing the most difficult lines but he had found them ultimately unsatisfying. He was even considering whether this would actually be his last climb, perhaps a different Leisure Activity would be more rewarding. 'Come on grandfather, inspire me' he had thought. He paid his fee to the controller, offered his pack for inspection, endured the usual questions about his strange shoes, signed the disclaimers and had downloaded the details for his chosen route.
And so here he was, the climb was two thirds complete, he was as unsatisfied as before 'one more section, then that's it for climbing - I need more than This'. He had always enjoyed the fresh air, the warm sun on his back, the exercise, but......
He looked at the Climbers Pack on the harness, around his waist. Grandfather's books had frequently been extremely funny: maps, guide books, route cards, getting lost, even going 'off route'. None of this could happen these days: it wasn't permitted to climb away from the designated route and climbers always had to register their plans, and download the details of their chosen route, before setting off. He pressed a button on his climbing pack and craned his neck to look upwards. The route glowed in red dashes on the rock, the recommended holds highlighted, green for feet, blue for hands. It could even be set to show whether it was a right or a left hand hold but the climber enjoyed working that out for himself. He also insisted in turning off the glowing route guides before he started climbing, relying on his memory as he moved upwards.
The climbing pack had a second purpose. The invention of portable anti-gravity packs had revolutionised climbing, Grandfather's ropes and mechanical devices were a strange reminder of what had gone before. The pack sensed a fall within two metres, slowed it, then allowed a gentle return to the ground. Nobody had died climbing for over fifty years now. They had gone on to design shoes with tiny servo motors in the sole to grip the rock securely, to bend to fit the shape of the hold, to provide lift to the foot. The climber had tried them but, perversely, insisted on Grandfather's shoes instead.
He did use the new Power Gloves. The motors would expand to tighten within a crack, would grip tiny protrusions with tremendous force, would curl around an edge. It was possible to hang, suspended on one gloved finger. Standards had immediately leapt forward, Grandfather's Extreme route was anything but that now, which was why the climber was the first person on this route for many years.
He thought again of the magic of those old climbing stories, of the sensations he was searching for, of the sense of loss. 'Come on grandfather, climb with me.'
After a while he turned again to the rock and began to climb. He moved easily, with a fluid grace, his muscles revelling in the effort. He reached the crux and paused to work out his moves: a crack, but an awkward width, an overhang. He decided quickly and moved.
His right foot flat against the rock, held by friction and the angle. His left hand curled beneath the undercut hold by his waist as he pivoted up with his legs, right hand flapping frantically for grip. He could smell the fir trees on the valley floor. His hand closed around a bulge, a poor hold, keep going. The undercut hold for his left hand was comforting but he had to move, a bird cried in the far distance, his right hand found better purchase and he shifted balance and reached up with his left, gripping the angle of the rock. The breeze played with the hairs on his neck, seeming to tease each individual hair.
A corner for his left foot gave him an angle, he could feel the textures of the surface under his sole, and he pushed and levered upwards. He could reach above the overhang now and his fingers desperately pushed deep into the crack and he tensed, feeling the rock bite into his skin, pulled, then straightened his arms, teetering, his upper body rocking over the upper lip of the overhang. His arms were locked, his legs extended, no leverage there, and his face was close up against the rock face, he could smell the damp in the crevices, the rich colours of the rock danced before his eyes.
Laying his cheek against the cool rock he squinted upwards and managed to see the next hold, shifting his balance onto his right hand he gently walked the fingers of his left hand across to caress the hold. Secure now he raised his right leg onto the top of the bulge and stood up, the cooler air kissing his tongue and catching the points of his teeth as he stepped up onto the small summit.
Throwing his head back he hollered at the skies, filled his lungs and screamed again. His heart was banging against the walls of his chest and his muscles burned and glowed. He surged with energy, dancing giddily on the summit rocks - he could see for miles, hear every living thing in the valley below, taste life in the air. His spirits soared, he had never felt like this before.
Fifty five metres below, on a small ledge where the climber had stopped to rest, lay a pair of Power Gloves and a Climbers Pack.
2nd place winner, Prose Section: Ruaridh Pringle
Good Bones
Looking back it seems ironic that, of all places, here was where part of my life ended. Too many pleasurable days had been shared here, on sun or snow-kissed Beinns and Sgurrs, or snug indoors as feathery fingers of frost sought each other across window panes or gales played with lampposts like a cat with a string ball, and drove sheets of spray from Loch Broom clear over the town. It was of course partly my fault. I hadn't noticed how rotten our connecting thread had become; could not have predicted that all it would require was one brief pull (literally) in some other direction for the whole tense structure to unravel. I look back now at the remains and see the frays were obvious to everyone but those it mattered to most.
Time passes. Summers and winters come and go; their quiet triumphs and tragedies building a fresh landscape of which once formative events are now only a dark and seldom visited country. Looking back I again see the sunlight for all the beautiful things it was; recall lung-fulls of clear as the elixir I had searched for, and found. Someday perhaps I'll return to my dark country and be unafraid to stay there for a while.
But not today.
Today, I recall. A rise at the crack of dawn; complaints, frowns, eagerness. A long hitch northwards up the A9, morning mists, a flirtatious smile, greasy chips. A camper-van fits somewhere; wallowing horribly on uncooperative roads; nausea on a soft, swaying couch smelling of dog food. A long journey, but further details won't come. Not even sure now whether we camped overnight when we reached Inverlael, or whether instead we arrived yearning for activity despite a morning's rough and hectic journey, or (more likely) whether I dragged us both straight into the hills, lamenting the march of morning towards afternoon; youth towards middle-age.
The forests of Glensguaib: a big urban machine turning life into toilet roll, soil into pound notes. Straight-jacketed pines above an uneasy stream wondering what kind of alien world it has blundered into. The battle zone is a line of timber and wire stretched across the map. Beyond, the River Lael flashes silver, innocent of its claustrophobic fate. The path lazily does what paths do, and Gleann na Sguaib is quite, quite beautiful: a staircase of heather, gravel and grass rising to distant precipices made mysterious by haze. Despite the fuggy sky, the sun shines warmly. Cool breezes tumble from fields of spring snow dying quietly on Beinn Dearg's marbled pate into alleys where glaciers once stalked. The mind replays two figures rising steadily, yet there is no effort or unpleasantness here: no price. The flies, the sweat and blisters which new boots surely created were long ago dropped on memory's cutting room floor. Cliffs loom, seeming proud, though I'm sceptical they feel that way. The path is my thermal: my feet have wings and I long to stride out. But other legs are not so willing. They dawdle and so I must wait. I smile as their owner approaches, and is quickly directed to the banks of the nearby lochan. "Left a bit.... can you look at the cliffs? No, face left thirty degrees...Thanks." Click. Another memory stored for later self-punishment.
Broad and stony, pool-spattered and windswept, a high bealach provides rest for those who need it, and glimpses of shadowy places no car-bound person would ever see. Soon I am pushing us on up the steeper slopes of Beinn Dearg and onto its bald head a kilometre above Loch Broom's liquid gunmetal. Haze has dimmed the surroundings; clarity fading softly into silvery distance. Even so, cameras are out again: prostheses for fallible, forgetful memories, rather than extensions of any creative mind. They record achievement, and not the view. I am assured with a smile that the climb was worth it, and I am happy.
Steps are retraced to the bealach's back of creeping rocks and parched grasses. Then it's up again, scampering over rocks and turf, come on, come on, time's galloping, we'll never reach Eididh nan Clach Geala if we don't push. Cona Mheall is a fine Munro; fossil bones stacked neatly above the brittle depths of impressive Coire Ghrunnda, which summons echoes of waterfalls rumbling over chill cliffs. The sky no longer even pretends to be blue. It is thick and grey; clinging to skin like a sweaty shroud.
Two summits remain and evening is gaining, please hurry, just a little, I don't want to turn this into a route-march, but we don't have all day....I don't say it though; just spring off at a Northwest tangent, a dog chasing his own very personal, idiosyncratic stick. Back again to the very same bealach, then onwards into the new, the undiscovered. Meall nan Ceapraichean, Munro number three of the day, overall number....Can't remember, not now, not then. Not that I think it would have mattered. Hardly a prominent mountain by any standards (definitely a meall), but I haven't been here before, and I like the feel and colours of the rocks, and the soft aroma of the heather and dry grasses which peep from the shadowy gaps between them.
It has good bones, this hill - and, like much of this strange land, a resonance beyond the physical, which seeps up through my feet into parts of me that are hollow, filling them, like a good reel or uisge-beatha. Why here? A question she would ask. Why the Highlands again? We have lovely countryside a minute's walk away. Can't you just for once stay this side of the Highland Boundary Fault and enjoy what we have here?
Introspection quickly turns defensive as the cool evening waits with me - or perhaps I'm recalling from another time. Munros are just a pathway, or so I tell myself. A framework for someone who lives in chaos yet needs to delve, to uncover, to explore places which, by their very inaccessibility, are interesting. How can there be interest without challenge? We were hunters, once - gatherers, nomads; explorers by nature, and every day was a life in itself exactly because it might have been the last. The mind has forgotten, but he blood remembers. Through the genes our ancestors speak to us, and if, while it is able, the body is willing to listen, where is the shame in that?
Onwards from Meall nan Ceapraichean, bald bony slopes drop to a high glen, hidden from all but the gods. Here we are utterly alone but for contemplative frogs, beetles which scuttle between rocks, and the whispering breeze. She is plodding now. Feet drag, and I am made to feel guilty of longer legs and bigger lungs. The sky has dimmed to strange hues; the low sun catching the sky like a huge brass shield. This is summertime, I tell myself. There is no problem, we'll be down before dark.
The climb to Eididh nan Clach Geala is our last. Once more I'm brazenly off ahead, seeing little reason to moderate my steps. Once more I wait, and then we are together in the gloaming; all smiles, perhaps in tune with one another fro a brief moment. Westwards, countless bog-lochans twinkle across the moors like gold-dust as the sun drifts slowly to bed.
We linger for a time: ten minutes perhaps. Then we are on the dragging descent back into Gleann Sguaib. The first stars appear. I relax into my stride once more, stopping every now and again to wait; content to watch the horizon's breathless slow deepening into velvet darkness as my companion catches up. In the glen I make it my turn to follow; finding each step a struggle against momentum my body wants to embrace.
Time passes. We are in the forest, and then in my tent, near a fence above the river. Then later, we are watching noisy Glaswegians make the old suspension bridge over Corrieshalloch bounce and shake. Then we are escaping hordes of midges up An Teallach, on a day of playful breezes and luminous skies.
The next day is my Birthday, and I am on top of A' Mhaighdean. It is my fourth Munro of a long day, and I have one left before my day is over. I have been here for the best part of an hour. I am totally alone, and as happy with the world and my place in it as I'll probably ever be.
I gaze over the half-water, half-land that is Letterewe forest, raise my face to the breeze, and smile.
3rd place winner, Prose Section: Simon Richardson
Enigma
The Tombstone loomed above. Dark and menacing, the crag was silhouetted against the star studded sky. Early January days are all too short, and yesterday we'd managed only three pitches before we ran out of time. Could Chris and I put it all together today? Was there enough daylight to regain our highpoint and climb the remaining six pitches to the top?
For many years I'd dreamed about making a winter ascent of Mainreachan Buttress. I was under no illusions however, for I knew only too well that long sought-after Scottish winter ambitions can be dangerous affairs. The likelihood of disappointment is high, and the crucial combination of conditions, weather, fitness and a willing partner rarely coincide, especially on big cliffs in the North-West. But we'd been on the cliff the day before. We knew it was in superb winter condition, draped white with fresh powder and hoar. Was this the moment? Fear of the unknown threatened indecision. Get a grip - it was now or never.
In the dull glow of the reflected starlight I could just make out the first groove, picked out by snow on its left wall. That pitch wasn't too hard. Surely we could climb it in the dark? We'd timed it pretty well. Another hour or so and it would be light enough to re-climb the steep corner on the second pitch. A few more minutes up the slope and we'd be at the gearing-up spot...
"Hey, Simon!"
I looked down to Chris several steps below.
"Simon, have you seen those lights?" Chris pointed his headtorch away to the West. Sure enough, there was a distinct flash on the horizon.
"Try flashing your torch?"
Chris took off his headlamp and gave three flashes. There was a pause, and then six clear flashes came back in reply. He tried once more. And again in return, came six more flashes.
"Simon, that's the distress signal. There must be someone on the col below Sgorr Ruadh!"
"But surely no-one could be in trouble there? There's no steep ground, no crags, nothing."
Chris's reply was stalled by another six flashes. Still completely focused on Mainreachan, I took my chance and followed through.
"They're probably OK you know. I expect they've seen our lights and are flashing to say Hello."
Chris looked at me sternly. His reply was quiet and measured.
"We'll have to go over you know. We have no choice."
He was right. Of course he was. Deep down I felt a little ashamed.
Decision made, we turned on our tracks and galloped down the slope. As we dropped into the coire, the col slipped below a false horizon and we lost sight of the lights.
Impatiently we ploughed through deep powder until we picked up tracks from the day before leading towards Sgorr Ruadh. Panting heavily we pulled up to the skyline and looked across to the col. Chris flashed his torch three times again, and sure enough six flashes were returned. They were fainter than before, but six flashes all the same. "Their battery must be fading by now," conjectured Chris. "It's a good job they saw us when they did. There'll be no-one else around for hours."
Heads down we continued through the snow and pulled up to the col. All was quiet. Eyes straining and ears alert, we stood around bemused and confused. There was nobody there - no torch, no person, no sight or sound of anyone. We searched the col, and then looked up and across to the West. From a second col about half a mile distant, came six weak flashes.
"Look Simon, they must be over there!"
We shouldered our packs and set off through the unbroken snow. Twenty minutes later we were at the second col, but again there was no sign of anyone at all. The snow was trackless. We stared across to the West again, and through the half-light of dawn came six wavering flashes. Slowly the penny dropped.
"Er, Chris. D'you know what I think?"
"No?"
"That's no torch. It's a lighthouse! It must be on Skye. It's so clear, we're seeing it from miles away!"
We stood in silence, and then looked sheepishly at each other. Slowly we turned our heads and looked back at the way we had come. In the early morning light we could make out our tracks heading back across Coire Lair and up to Mainreachan Buttress. High up on the crag, the upper grooves of Enigma were tinged red with dawn. Without a word we turned around, and set off back up the hill.