The Mountaineering Council of Scotland
Literary Competition 2003
by Kevin Howett
The Judges this year were current MCofS Vice President and Teacher Beryl Leatherland, Ex-MCofS President, John Donohoe, Ex-MCofS Vice President and English Teacher, Ingrid Parker, Writer Irvine Butterfield and myself, National Officer.
The entries in the ‘Prose’ category were diverse in content, although there seemed to be a paranormal theme this year for some reason. There were descriptions of walking in the Pyrenees and in Tasmania, climbing big hills in New Zealand and climbing in Scotland.
There were several entries which the judges felt were close contenders; last years winner, Hughie Wilson, writing of an ascent of “Sou’wester Slabs” on Arran is an excellent story in which the use of Scots slang helps adds to the humour, whilst “Lochnagar” by Caroline Harper is a well constructed observation of three generations of hillgoer’s views and activities and came close to winning. Ian McCabe’s tale of climbing the route ‘Hammer’ on the Etive Slabs centred on his reminiscing from “A Nice Hot Bath” which the judges felt created a good sense of apprehension. However, the winner of the first prize this year is Cathy Witfield with “The Big Grey Man”, telling the story of a walk up and quickly back down Ben MacDui. The second prize is shared between “Cutting Goretex”, Graham E Little’s story of a harrowing fall whilst soloing in winter, and Tim Mason’s “Hourquette de Heas”, the story of a group of walkers being saved from a Pyrenean mountain storm.
Entries to the poetry category were very diverse. Joe McLaughlin’s succinct entry “The Hill” would put McGonigal to shame, whilst Ian McCabe’s use of climbing grades as simile for important periods of one’s life brought a chuckle or two and Robert Barker’s “Ascent of the Dome do Chasseforet” was a highly regarded tale of an Alpine ascent; all of which were in the running. In the end two very different entries shared first position; Laura Alexander’s “Bob” strikes a cord as a perceptive study of a mountaineer’s personality, whilst S Miller’s “Glory” encapsulates the beauty of a mountain day.
1st place winner, Prose Section: Cathy Whitefield
The Big Grey Man
'Ye're no feart, then?' Archie asks as they walk up the track at the back of the Linn of Dee car-park.
'Feart? Why should I be feart?' Duncan looks at Archie in surprise.
'Well – its Ben Macdui we're heading for and the cloud'll be down on the top the day.'
'So what? I've not forgotten how to navigate, even if you have. Come on, man! The forecast's good; we've plenty of time. What's the worry?'
'Ye mean tae tell me ye dinna ken about Am Fear Liath Mor?' Archie shakes his head in disbelief.
Duncan doesn't answer. Archie is full of daft stories. Half the time he makes them up – like that time on Am Fasarinen when he told Duncan the last pinnacle was haunted by a climber who'd fallen to his death - and how the ghost would grab hold of the legs of unsuspecting scramblers and pull them over the edge. Duncan hadn't half-hollered when he'd felt a hand on his ankle - but of course it had just been Archie playing the fool. This Ferly Mor' will be another of Archie's pieces of nonsense.
Duncan decides to ignore him, and he puts his head down and strides out. By this time they've reached the land-rover track to Derry Lodge and are swinging their way down towards the bridge over the Lui. It's early still, and the day is cold and fresh. The clouds are high but, according to the forecast, they will drop later that afternoon. All the more reason to get a move on, and they step out along the gently rising and falling track above the flats of the Lui, past the ruins of the old shielings and along the edge of the new plantations.
From time to time Duncan points out a heron down by the river, or a group of stags high on the hill, but apart from nodding in appreciation, Archie doesn't have much to say - and that's unusual. Duncan's the one who likes to look around at things and think his own thoughts, but he doesn't often get the chance for Archie is aye blethering on. So this silence - although welcome – is uncharacteristic and oddly unsettling and by the time they reach the pinewood at the foot of Glen Derry and are tramping towards Robber's Copse, Duncan is beginning to wonder what it was he'd said. Archie doesn't even manage a grin when Duncan reminds him of one of the stories he'd told at that particular point on a previous occasion.
'Mind the Gold Tree?' he asks, nodding up into Coire Craobh an Oir where a single pine clings to the upper slopes. 'Mind you telling me it was where that Lord Thingumy had buried his gold - and all them plans we made to come back with a couple of spades? You had me going then!'
'Aye - I mind,' Archie says distractedly. Normally he wouldn't have been able to resist the urge to poke fun at Duncan's supposed credulity. Something is definitely wrong, and by the time they've struck off from Glen Luibeg and are headingup towards Sron Riach, Duncan can't stand it any longer.
'What is it then, this 'Ferly Mor'?'
Archie stops abruptly, and Duncan almost runs into him. 'Ye really dinna ken?' Archie asks with a glance up the ridge that leads to the great plateau of Ben Macdui.
'No -I really dinna ken! But see if this is ane of your stories ...'
'It's no my story!' Archie objects. 'You can read it for yourself in the Cairngorm Club Journal. It was Professor Norman Collie that seen it first.'
'Who?' Duncan asks, suspiciously. Archie, when he isn't telling wild stories, is a bit of a name-dropper. 'Friend of yours, is he?'
'He's dead, you daft pillock! You mean you've never heard of Norman Collie? Collies' Ledge?'
'Oh - that Norman Collie! Sure I've heard of him,' says Duncan, who hasn't.
They head on up the track and are high on the shoulder of the Sron by the time Duncan gets the whole story out of Archie. 'Ferly Mor' - Am Fear Liath Mor - is some sort of ghost, by all accounts. Professor Norman Collie first reported it back in 1925, although his encounter had been thirty-five years before. But others have seen or heard it since - and mostly on Ben Macdui - footsteps in the mist, huge footsteps, crunching on gravel or snow; sometimes voices, sometimes music - and there are those who've seen a great grey figure, twenty feet or more tall. But everyone, whatever they've seen or heard, was gripped by an intense feeling of dread and an overwhelming desire to run, to get off the mountain; to get away at any cost.
'You believe all that?' asks Duncan, looking up at the wide scree-strewn slopes of the hill above them. The clouds have definitely dropped and it's colder now.
'Of course not!' Archie scoffs. I'm just telling you so you ken what to be feart of.'
'I'm no feart,' says Duncan stoutly.
'Nor am I', says Archie. But he is, Duncan realises. Archie, leg-puller extraordinaire, is feart.
Time to get his own back, Duncan decides, though he doesn't know how. Not yet. He thinks about it all the way up the ridge, but he still doesn't have any ideas by the time they reach the cliffs above Lochan Uaine and are into the clouds. They have dropped, as forecast, and the track is swathed in a grey mist. 'Maybe we should be getting back,' says Archie suddenly.
'What? We're almost there. We've just to skirt these cliffs and then we'll hit the Etchachan track. Listen - you can hear folk on it.'
The mist magnifies sounds. Duncan can hear a voice in the distance, but then it's blown away by a wind moaning up from the loch far below, and all they can hear are the sounds of wind and water and, once, the harsh complaint of a raven, tumbling on an updraft. Archie jumps at that and looks around wildly.
'What was that?'
'Come on, man. It was only a raven.'
Before long they reach the track and turn west, heading up the shallow slope that will bring them to the summit. Archie hesitates and seems reluctant to go on, but continuing with Duncan is evidently preferable to staying behind on his own, and he follows closely, jumping at each sound, his breathing faster than the gradient warrants, and Duncan realises that Archie is listening to the sound of their own footsteps in the granite gravel, the steady crunch, crunch, crunch. There had been something about footsteps hadn't there? Duncan stops, unshoulders his rucksack, takes a swallow of water from his bottle and, when Archie isn't looking, scoops up a handful of gravel and stuffs it into the pocket of his jacket.
After twenty minutes or so they reach the top; the cairn and triangulation point. They're alone, which is strange, for Duncan is certain he'd heard voices on the track ahead of them, but whoever it was has maybe headed north.
'Right,' says Archie, touching the cairn briefly as he always does. 'We'll get away down now.'
'Already? Come on – let's have a breather, eh? Look-the sun's coming out.'
And sure enough, it's becoming lighter, the mist more luminous. With any luck the clouds will lift and they'll be able to see Braeriach and Cairn Toul across the great gash of the Lairig. But the mist doesn't break up completely, and continues to form on the downwind side of the summit, even though the sun is shining from the south east. Duncan stands up to peer through the forming mist to see if he can make out the distant peaks. But what he sees instead - with an unpleasant loosening of his insides - is a huge grey figure.
'Christ, Archie! What in God's name's that?' 'Bloody hell! It's Am Fear Liath Mor!'
'Christ! What'll we dae?'
'Act casual. Try no tae look feart! Wave at it.'
'Wave at it!?'
'Aye - go on. Wave!'
Duncan raises his arm and waves. Amazingly, the great grey figure waves back. Then he hears a snort behind him and he turns in alarm - only to see that Archie is doubled up, tears of laughter streaming down his face.
'Ye daft pillock!' Archie gasps when he can get his breath back 'It's a Brocken Spectre! An optical illusion. Anyone would think ye'd never seen one before'
Duncan, his heart-rate slowing, raises his other arm and watches the great grey figure do likewise. Archie comes to stand beside him and then there are two grey figures waving at the two of them.
'Well, bugger me! So that's all it is, eh? Just our shadows on the mist?' Duncan is annoyed with himself at being taken in, and even more annoyed with Archie for pretending to be scared just to get Duncan's wind up. He's been had - once again. But then he remembers about the gravel. He slips his hand into his pocket and squeezes the gravel rhythmically in his palm. It grinds together with a crunch, crunch noise - like footsteps in the distance; footsteps that are coming closer.
'What's that?' Archie whispers, grabbing Duncan by the other arm. And then the blood drains from his face. 'Run!' He takes off across the plateau. 'Run, man!' he yells as he disappears. 'But -'
It's too late. Archie is already out of earshot. Duncan begins to laugh. He can hear Archie's footsteps as he runs - great bounding footsteps tearing down the mountainside. But it's strange how the footsteps don't disappear, how they seem to come closer. The mist closes in and it grows colder. His laughter shrivels to a gulp and he feels an overwhelming desire to run, to get off the mountain - at any cost.
'Wait, Archie! Wait for me!' He'd better catch up with him. The daft bugger will run off the cliff if he isn't careful. But it's Duncan who nearly runs off the cliff, tearing down the mountainside as if something is after him. He swerves at the last minute, skids along the edge and runs on and on, not stopping even after he's run out of the mist, not even after he's overtaken Archie on the way down the track. He keeps running until he reaches the bottom of Sron Riach and can see the woods of Robber's Copse ahead. Only then does he stop, wait for Archie who isn't far behind, and catch his breath. Neither of them can speak for quite a while.
'You thought it was yon ghost,' says Duncan, accusingly.
'No, I didnae.'
'Aye, you did,' maintains Duncan as they walk on. After a moment he squeezes the gravel in his pocket again - and has the satisfaction of seeing Archie go white as a sheet. 'Aye, you did,' he says. 'But it was just me all along.' He pulls out his hand and shows him the gravel.
'You ... you ...' Archie's speechless, steam practically coming out of his ears. But then he begins to laugh. 'All right, you bastard, you got me there! I admit it. See when I heard those footsteps ....?' He bends over clutching his ribs, gasping with laughter. 'And see when I saw that third figure in the mist? I dinna ken how you did that, though!'
'Third figure? What third figure?'
Duncan looks at Archie, and Archie, sobering, looks back at him. Then, together, they turn and look back the way they've come, up the Sron, up into the cloud. It's dropping now, a long tendril of fog reaching out down the track, lifting and falling as if it's running in huge bounds. Something darker and denser is forming at the leading edge. Something huge and grey and utterly terrifying....
Joint 2nd place winner, Prose Section: Graham E Little
Cutting Goretex
There is one broken step on the high stile over the new deer fence. The pain in my legs and pelvis doubles in intensity as I step high to cross it. I ease my body down the other side of the stile, then slump against the rough wood, racked by violent spasms of shivering. The delayed shock of the accident has clocked in. I am cold but sweating profusely. It is just after 1400 and I've spent the last two hours sliding, crawling and shuffling from the final point of impact to this place. Now there is a good chance of enlisting help to get me off the mountain.
Soloing allows little margin for error. Over a period of 35 years good luck has compensated for occasional lapses of judgement, but not this time.
I know that the tool placements are poor - scraggy heather rather than solid turf- but I step up onto a narrow schist edge to 'have a look'. The move above doesn't look good so I ease back down - one tool pulls -I pivot round - the other tool rips - all is not lost - I jump for the ledge below - crampon points rip into fleece -I pogo on one leg into space - such incompetence - a soloing disgrace! The first impact is at the base of my spine (a not so metaphorical kick up the bum) - the next my knee - then my thumb. I await the soft snow landing but it's more like ice (a bad entry at Acapulco) -I try to breathe - sliding head first - when will I stop? - when I hit a rock? My helmet takes the impact. There is pain everywhere, my limbs and slings arranged in a macramé web. I flash back many years to my brother's knee filling with fluid like an inflating balloon. Amidst all the pain and anger (at my own stupidity) one thing is clear - I must cross to the other side of the corrie to have any chance of being found before darkness. My anger keeps the pain at bay as I remove crampons and harness and pack them into my now rather battered sac.
An attempt to stand sees me crumple to the ground in agony. Interconnected snowfields allow a slow, numb-bum, slide to the floor of the corrie. At least the morning mist has cleared and I can see the 'A' of the stile on the far ridge. Crawling is painful - walking is just as painful. I eventually settle for an olds man's shuffle, where one foot moves just in front of the other, with no torsion on the knee joints. It is just bearable but painfully slow, the odd hidden hole and sun-softened snow patch conspiring to break my rhythm and weaken my resolve. I watch a 'Red Indian' line of figures descending the far ridge but my cries for help are blown back into my pale face. Sun-gold hollows of dry grass try to seduce me into bed but I shuffle on, the 'A' slowly, oh so slowly, getting bigger and bigger. I'm there and then painfully over.
My whole body is in a state of(delayed) shock and suddenly feels drained of all strength. I barely have the energy to shout and wave at two figures descending the ridge above me. I sense their moment of doubt - am I some mad, axe wielding, murderer to be avoided at all cost? They hesitate, then branch off the main path to join me. Alan and Rob are father and son, with Rob (aged l4) on his first Scottish winter outing (to become a memorable one!). As with all teenagers, Rob has mobile phone and at his father's prompting, phones 999 and communicates a perfect position statement including a full grid reference. The rescue swings into action - or so we believe. In reality, although an ambulance, a Landrover and a helicopter are mobilised, little real progress is being made. Alan and Rob get me inside their yellow bivi tent and ply me with hot coffee - they really are well prepared!
I curse and groan as the hours slip by. Freezing mist slips down the mountain and a rising wind plucks at the bivi tent. Various return calls to Rob's mobile tell of missing people, missing equipment and of a grounded helicopter (bits dangling off the back of the helicopter threatening to fly off into the tail rotor).
I'm close to despair and tears when three paramedics loom out of the gloom at about I830. In passing, they mention that it's their first time on the hill. However, when it comes to drugs, they know their business and I'm soon mainlining warm fluid and morphine. They try their hand at mountain rescue but the 'flat-board' isn't really up to the task and we are forced to wait for the mountain rescue. When they arrive, en mass, at about 2000, the rescue moves up a gear. Before long I'm off the hill, loaded into the back of an ambulance and on my way to Stirling Royal Infirmary.
“Now Graham, where were you walking?” I explain, for what seems like the tenth time, that I was climbing. “Not on your own?” is variously a question, a contradiction and a condemnation. The neck-brace prevents any lateral vision but I'm aware, in a woozy kind of way, that something is happening to my arms and legs, starting at my wrists and ankles and working up - it sounds like scissors cutting material: Gore-Tex, thick fleece, thin fleece and new ACL skin-wear. “You can't do that”, I shout but they can and they have - every item of clothing has been cut off!
“You are very lucky Mr Little," the consultant informs me the following morning”. Apart from damaged ligaments and bruising, you've only sustained a broken thumb and a cracked sacrum. It's very uncommon to see a cracked sacrum - lots of nerves down there at the base of the spine - should be very painful. Could also give you problems with the waterworks and waste disposal”. I reflect upon the truth of his words (and much later on, in the toilet, match his euphemisms - the tap is labelled 'skin cleansing system').
As his entourage moves on to the next bed, I ease my battered body into a marginally less excruciating position. Some vague memory of Gore-Tex being used to replace human tissue enters my still morphine-mellowed mind. As I slip into restless dream- sleep, I consider all the recycling potential of cut off climbers clothing. Sadly they are gone when I awake.
Joint 2nd place winner, Prose Section: Tim Mason
Hourquette de Heas
“The unpredictable and knotted grain of the Pyrenees”
The barrier that was in front of us had separated glaciers in the past, then countries - so it was very effective in diverting us from a direct route. We were contouring around the Cirque de Troumouse. The severe northerly slopes of the Pic de la Munia and its rugged supporting spurs fending us off from any direct access over to the Spanish side.
After three weeks following variants of the 'Haute Route' we were becoming accustomed to the unpredictable and knotted grain of the Pyrenees. Our early exuberance and direct approach had been replaced by more tactical circumnavigation of the roughest ascents, by a more studied hunt for the relenting folds and helpful creases in the land that would lead us slowly eastwards and to the other sea.
The intermittent path round the cirque was giving us a good line between long tiers of cliffs and after s short drop to a group of long-deserted shielings we picked up the reassuring red and white paint flashes of a HRP 'variante'. This promised a relatively straightforward ascent to the Hourquette de Heas and a 'balcon' route to the Refuge de Barroude. On the map the refuge was only two kilometres east of where we stood, but it would take us all day to get there. But it is not helpful to think like that so I tried to imagine the route folding out through the day, as if in a straight line rather than an almost completed circle.
My two companions were up ahead and I was content to have them there - close enough to spur me on and upwards, but not so close as to break my self-contained mood and my focus on the rugged surroundings. The path was zigging steeply up to a high pasture below the pass. The unmanned bothy at Aquila was soon behind us as I dropped my pack and slid down for water. The light was sharp in its rocky gorge, reflecting from the tight and solid walls and from the hectic stream. The chute of water had laid bare and polished underlying granite. The silver liquid ran solid and quick as mercury and was then melted into a turquoise haze in the pool below me in which were magnified the striations and agglomerations of the long washed stones.
Within this enclosure I could still turn and look back across the ranges to the distant Ossoue glacier whose slopes, from this angle lead invitingly up to the final crest of the Vignemale, the highest point on the main ridge and now already three days past.
Traces of cloud were moving together below me and from opposite ends of the valley. This I knew as an early sign of changing conditions and I suddenly felt isolated, aware that I was out of earshot in this confined gulley. Resisting the temptation to take any weighty souvenirs from the pool with me I scrambled up to my pack and the path.
When I reached the other two they were about to approach a stranger. This was the first person we had seen that day and he was clearly here for other reasons than those of hill-walking. The bright, light material of our trekking gear stood out against the heaviness of his working clothes. He looked the part in his dark beret and with a hessian sack freshly laid down by his boots. He needed no sunglasses to protect his gaze and stared deeply as we approached. Time to get some local knowledge we thought.
“Bon jour monsieur, ca va? Vous travaillez ici?”
“Naturallement, et vous?” - he replied seriously.
“Nous allons au Refuge de Barroude”
“Par la Hourquette!” he seemed a little alarmed, but we were encouraged that our basic French was getting through - even if we couldn't match the clanging consonants of his Occitan accent. “Attention messieurs” he continued quickly “- un orage viens, toute suite.” He pointed behind us and the Vignemale had been blanked out by a rising wall of mist below encroaching streaks of higher cloud.
“Mais la Horquette - y a-t-il aucunes difficultes?” we asked
“Quelquefois elle est trop difficile. Attention - ne montez maintenang!”, this last was driven into us both by his eyes and his intonation.
“Arretez ici, messieurs-dame - voila vos places” - he pointed to a shallow spot between some protecting flanks, then quickly shouldering his sack he turned and stroud up to a small stone howff that we had not noticed before and to which we were obviously not being invited.
“Il arrive - vang minutes”, this last spat out over his shoulder.
No matter, it didn't take us that long to get up the two lightweight tents - we were well enough practised by then.
Neither did it take that long before the first bellow of thunder was followed quickly by a shutter of sheet lightening. The mist was swirling between the tents but the sky above was still clear blue and the flat profile of the Horquette was stark against it. As was the rocky cairn at the col - suddenly accompanied by a smaller and thinner shape as someone moved up the final slope to reach it. Some place to view the power of the approaching storm, but a risky one at that, where the highest point to attract the lightening was likely to be oneself! We stared up incredulous and waved foolishly - far too distant and insignificant to be noticed. Yet the wave was returned - or more likely whoever was up there was exalting in the advancing power before them which now obscured our view and sent us scurrying into our tents with the first crack of its tail. Here we were pelted with hailstones, increasing in size and ferocity until they threatened to shred the tents, whacking into the fabric or bouncing up to a foot into the air from their momentum as they pounded into the ground. This pelting transformed itself into the equally solid thud of storm born rain descending with venom from escalating clouds. The sound and lightning seared our brains as we plugged our ears and shrank into our sacs - pulverised by the power of the onslaught over our heads.
This was both terrific and terrifying.
But as the tents demonstrated that they would stand up to the onslaught and our appointed spot showed no sign of flooding we relaxed. The gentle purr of the gas stoves contrasted now with the continuing cacophony outside our modest but effective shelters.
After a few hours we emerged - pleased to see that our tents had taken the punishment and exhilarated to take in the scene that was emerging through the ragged strips of mist. The grass was fresh from its dowsing and a thin gauze of snow had been drawn over the upper slopes towards the col. The brightness reasserted itself and demanded that we pack and move to see it all from further up. We blinked into the strengthening light and glanced around for our knowledgeable guide - but no sign. We couldn't even locate his howff in all the emerging details of the mountain side.
No matter - to the col and a bright blue yonder!
We quickly picked up a good line which zagged through boulders and between crags to the rocky edge of the Horquette itself. This turned out to be sharp and slabby on the other side where it descended to a subsidiary col, a small lake was sparkling below and a route to a rocky corner hinted at our 'balcon' route beyond. Round this corner came a small group of fellow trekkers - their sticks pulling them up the steep and final steps to our spot by the cairn. We glanced down to our hollowed refuge spot, clear enough in the sunshine and beyond that once more to the glacial bowl of snow and ice below the peak of the Vignemale. The bright sun was showing us details all afresh. Why we could even see once more a dark and lonely figure standing close to our spot and it was looking up - maybe staring towards us, here by the prominence of the cairn. We waved again and - yes - one slow wave in return. One hand held long and high before the door of that lowly howff.
We turned to greet the newcomers as they came up to join us from the other side. We wanted to share our experiences of the storm. They were locals also - although from another valley. They had sheltered in the refuge and, yes, the balcon route was clear and fine - two hours only. The young Madame was in residence and keen to cook for les 'randonneurs' - the day was just getting better and better!
But our questions about the lonely storm watcher we had seen here on the col drew blank looks and a few puzzled shrugs - they had seen nothing, the route was narrow and no one had passed them. Anyway, they said, this place was well known as dangerous in any storm. There had been deaths here before and not so long ago.
The Hourquette de Heas was a place with a history it seemed and not altogether a happy one. Why else, they seemed to be suggesting would such an attractive pasture as that down below, where we had been, be so deserted and unused?
But not entirely deserted we ventured. There was still at least one shepherd below, at least now in the summer and we had met him. We recounted our meeting and the warning that we had received - proud to tell of our recent exploits.
The new arrivals looked strangely at this.
“Un berger? Un homme, tous seul!!”
“Pas possible - il y a personne la-bas pour quelques annees!”
“And my friend” now our informant broke into English as if to emphasise his point “The last to live down there was killed - just here at the Horquette, by a ---- a ----“ he searched for the word.
“Par un orage!” I completed the sentence and turned back to our pasture and the lonely figure by that howff - knowing for sure there would be no one to be seen.
1st place joint winner, Poetry Section: Laura Alexander
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Bob We still talk of Bob Laugh at the time when, hungover, he caught the wrong train in Glasgow, Spent Hogmanay in Inverness and not Glen Pean. Refer to routes at Mod as ‘vertical’ In a mocking emulation of Bob’s gravelly tones. Tell newcomers to the club of his dramatic entry into Lagangarbh on a winter’s night; Stocky, dark, still clad in salopettes, harness, helmet Full rack dangling about his knees, icescrews, pegs, hexes, nuts, the lot. Snow on his shoulders, axes in hand, There was the scent of epic adventure about Bob and his partner that day, The late return, no chance to take to take off or put away the gear. Within, we students had been attempting to impress the hut’s owners, Swapping climbing talk and whisky with venerable members of the SMC. One of our new acquaintances turned to the apparition at the door:- ‘What did you do then?’ Expecting, after all our talk of IV’s and V’s, to be impressed. ‘The Aonach Eagach’ said Bob proudly, ‘East to West’. The SMC member looked at his great array of ironmongery, and raised his brows. The room fell silent. We felt as though Bob had let us down, Made nonsense of our proud boasts to be hard climbers. In truth though, Bob loved the hills, got as much from his climbing as any other, Accepted our derision of his careful preparations and his excessive gear; Gave as good as he got when we took the mickey in the pub. His death, leading a rock route many of us would have soloed, made us think, Made us realise that perhaps he had been climbing to his limit, That, for him, the Aonach Eagach in winter had been an epic, was an achievement And that mountaineering was his life now more completely than it was ours. |
1st place joint winner, Poetry Section: S Miller
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Glory The bruised and burning evening sky hung silent to the west on frozen heights the mountains blushed to every snowy crest. Icy chill sank in the glens and mixed in fading light with shadows, as the dog star announced the coming night. Dusk, then dark, spread and thickened, with every minute colder. Not one word moved between us two perched there on Starav’s shoulder. Serene amid the gloom below Loch Etive slender stretched. A jagged limb that reaches far to ceaseless waters fetch, From crowding hills which closely press her narrow waisted sides. Such brawny granite massifs her graceful reach divides. Till at her elbow rise Cruachans looming keeps From where among more gentle braes Loch Etive seaward sweeps. West beyond the isles the sun is all but gone. It’s heat was little felt today for all it brightly shone. Only now when radiance removes to leave still night Do we appreciate how much it had deflected winter’s bite. So clear and pure the air today seemed new to breath and sight Its clarity enough to reach a million stars tonight. We climbed these heights in perfect time to witness first hand The day’s halcyon beauty enchant this mountain land. The clarity that gave us views of sweeping, crested wonder Is formed into a memory that time could never plunder. That I will carry with me from now into old age As faithfully recorded a any written page. At work or on winters night, beside a homely blaze. Revisiting the glory of mountain days. |