The Mountaineering Council of Scotland
Literary Competition 2004
by Kevin Howett
We had a good selection of prose this year for the judges to ponder over, although the number of entries to the poetry category was well down on previous years.
The Prose category saw a range of articles from factual descriptive walks and climbs in remote parts of the world, Alpine peaks, and in Scotland, to more philosophical pieces exploring the nature of our sport. Just missing out on winning in third place was Dave McVey with ‘Looking for the Blue’, a tale of a lifelong quest that becomes an obsession – we can all relate to that! Others close behind included Iain Davison’s re-telling of a friends encounter with wolves which captured the absurdity of our primeval fears; John Allen’s climbing of The Dragon on Carnmore was a recollection of youths adventurous spirit; whilst Liz Bibby nicely described an unexpected epic on a small hill entitled ‘The Fence’.
The poetry category saw 4 entries all very similar in style, but Iain Davidson’s piece won out for its eloquence and simplicity.
The winners were:
PROSE
First place (winning £100) is Joe Brown with ‘Breathe’, an excellent description of an accident situation where panic takes over and this was perfectly captured by the pace and style of the writing.
Second place (winning £50) goes to Dave Coustic with ‘The Future of Himalayan Climbing’, a futuristic tale of virtual climbing that is not all it seems.
POETRY
Winner (receiving £50) is ‘Lomond Equinox’ by Iain Davidson.
1st place winner, Prose Section: Joe Brown
Breathe
Ye know it's wrong! Ye're doing it wrong. Ye take a tumble now ye're both dead. But what are the options man for christ sake she's gonnae die man. She's actually gonnae die unless ye get somebody. So ye keep running, almost headlong, down the steep, rocky ridge. Legs pumping fae side to side. Stepping and jumping. Concentration man. Concentrate and don't bloody panic. Keep the heid man. Watch the rocks. Bloody rocks. All wet. Greasy. Yer eyes darting, side to side, looking for the best bits; footholds; the next step: wee flat one, bounce aff that, another wee flat, step here, bounce, the quick, double-take, shimey-shammey steps causing most problems. The knees just no up tae this at all, no way. Ye feel them, waver and almost go every other step. The left worst, definitely. Always yer weakest side, the left. Christ but she's bad man. She's in a bad way; she really is. Ye keep seeing it - her face - clear as ye like. God almighty man her wee face; all smashed and cut like that. And her leg. Her leg. The strange angle of it; the image there in yer mind; broken for sure. Ye feel sick, almost buckle. Christ! Cool yer jets man. Ye drop the pace tae something controllable; let the breathing settle. Nice and steady man. Just keep it steady.
Reaching a steep scramble, 20ft, maybe less, ye swing intae it, facing the stone, working the arms and hands and feet, down and down from hold tae step tae hold; sliding bits; scraping; jumping back the last six - maybe ten - foot and falling back on yer arse. Eejit! But ye're still intact. Ye're no hurt. It's ok and ye pick yerself up, drawing a big breath, eye the crag just negotiated before ye turn and pick up the pace again. The going definitely better now. The way less steep and so ye lengthen the stride, feeling a bit stronger. Ye see out the corner of yer eye, the torn sleeve of yer jacket, flapping every swing of the arm. Disnae matter but. The good Gore Tex tae, so what! Ye don't care. Not important; not now. Ye don't even look at it; not directly. Ye're just aware of it. This flash of white that wisnae there before. It makes it real though – not caring or looking – this is actually real.
Oh Christ! Ye look at yer watch. It's just after three. When did ye leave her? When had she fallen; how long since …? Christ. Ye don't even know. That's important surely? They'll ask that for sure. One wee fact ye don't even know. Ye stop, look again at yer watch then back towards the crags, the gully poking out behind. Forty minutes? Aye, forty minutes since ye left her. Two-twenty ye'd tell them. Ye left her about two-twenty. Christ but ye left her! Unconscious. Not moving. Ye feel guilty. Ye cannae help it, ye just do, but then what can ye dae? What else? Ye were doing it right, definitely. She'd still been breathing. Ye were nae use up there. Nae use at all. Get help. That was the right thing tae do. That's all ye knew; get the rescue boys and get her sorted; that was the only thing to do.
Ye were almost down aff the slopes. Almost at the easy stuff. A wee, winding path that ducked and weaved its way along the burn, out the glen to the road. Just get to the road! No more than a mile. Ye pick the pace up till ye're moving quite quickly; then ye fall. No warning. Ye trip and ye're down. Nae outstretched hands. Momentum connects ye tae rocks and pain; breath leaving ye; pain filling ye. Ye lie there, just the way ye've fallen, wrapped against stone. The left ribs crushed hard against it. No moving despite the pain. Stay still. God the pain man christ …, everywhere. Trying … tae breathe. Ye cannae breathe. All breath torn fae ye. Just winded perhaps. Aye. Ye're maybe just winded is all. Relax man. Nothing's broken; ye're just winded. Relax. Try'n breath. But no, it was worse. No air at all. The lungs empty and ye wanting to scream because of the pain. Yell a bit. But no air. No air for that. Oh … man god almighty, sharp …! Ye roll on tae yer back; gasp a wee mouthful. Hot. Breath burning. …breathing tea. Black tea. Like breathing … hot, black tea. Chest…for sure. A rib perhaps. Ye push air back; force it out; but less. Less out than in, then gulp more, a reflex gulp, it burning like the last and tighter. The chest tight. Relax. Ye're ok. Ye'll be… It's ok. The way she'd… she'd fallen. …been behind. Seen it god almig - couldnae get tae her but. Ye'd just… She just tripped. Ye see it again. A stupid trip. Her toe, caught on her heel then aff the edge. Straight aff and down. Ye feel sick. The guts hollow and sink. Seeing it, there again, her falling, rolling, smashing down. Ye're gonnae be sick. Sit up. Ye sit up – nausea fading. Need up. Ye have tae get up. Get moving. Need tae stand and get. Ye half roll onto the right, push up onto yer knees. Yer hand reaching round the side; pressing ribs. Pain from the left slicing across the back. Ye cough, a hard, dry cough. The taste of blood. Ye wipe yer hand across yer tongue. A trail of red, streaked slaber. And the heart man; ye can feel it. Feel it moving; rubbing against lung or rib. Not sore but, just weird; a weird feeling. Ye stand, more weight on the right leg. Yer left knee untested; numb. Trying tae cough; wanting a good cough; but the lungs all wrong. Wee airless puffs and gasps. Ye take a few steps. The knee easing a bit then almost normal; a dull ache just. Tolerable. Walking slow. Steady. Deliberate. Breathing the worst bit. Shallow sips and puffs was it. A few more steps. Steps measured against breaths. Step to a breath. Step to a breath. Step-breathe. Step-breathe. Wee Lesley man-step-breathe-don't let her down ya-step-fool-breathe. Step-breathe. Step-breathe.
Ye mind that book. The book ye read. The guy who'd crawled for miles, his leg broken, over snow and ice and crevasses. Bit at a time, that was it. Just pick wee bits, wee targets, that's how he'd done it. A clump of rock for instance. Step-breathe. That clump of rocks there. Fifty metres at a guess, no more. Step-breathe. She had to live man god she had tae no die. Yer mate's daughter. Wee Lesley man. Yer best mate's wee lassie. Maybe sixty metres, it seemed closer but ye can never tell. The pain becoming familiar. Ye've the measure of it now. Know each breath how far tae take it. How hard ye can fill and stretch the ribs before a limit's reached and the pain … a slice through the back. Her last year at the Uni tae. Oh god, hing in there pet. Yer sweating. A bad kind of sweat! Ye hadn't noticed before but ye run yer hand across yer neck and ower yer face and find them soaked. And ye're cold tae. Ye feel quite cold. Wee shivers now and then, grabbing ye in waves. Three more steps. Another step. The rock; ye touch it. Where next? Don't pause, just pick; where next? Ye take a step. Wait! Wait till ye've picked. Pick then move – where? Ye look ahead, the sight no quite right. The vision drifting a bit. Maybe a mist coming? Ye shake the heid, rub the eyes. The brow of the next rise? Maybe the foot? The foot. Moving again. A step. A breath. Step-breathe. Step-breathe. -breathe. Slowing. Ye know it. The breathing getting harder. Less out each time than in, and sweating. A clammy sweat. The heart pounding and feeling a bit dizzy now. But keep going. Just fix yer eyes: fix on the brow. Just tae the brow and on from there.
Wee Leslie man god he loved her tae – like a daughter tae him. His other wee daughter. God hen, help's coming love. Help's coming. Coughing hard; all yer body coughing; trying tae, but no air. Ye stop. It's wrong. Something's … not the brow! Ye're looking at the brow. That's wrong; ye'd picked the foot before, ye were sure. Why the brow? Ye bend forward, hands on thighs supporting, looking at the brow of the next rise. Ye should be looking at the foot! Ye slump against a clump of heather. The foot for sure, that had been settled. But ye're looking at the brow. Feeling a bit lost. How no the brow? Ye don't know. What's the problem? Ye cannae answer. Ye close yer eyes; roll yer face into the earth; cough into it. A relief; an unexpected relief. Ye feel better; supported. The heather soft, holding ye. Firm, like a friend's hug. A wee rest. Ye'll have a wee rest perhaps. Try'n catch yer breath. Let the sweat dry then start again. Ye'll do that. Ye're tired. A wee sleep then ye'll head for the foot; and then the brow. And two-twenty, ye'd mind tell them. But a wee rest just. Yer face pushed hard against scrub; through thin breaths, the damp spring heather, the scent reminding ye of purple.
1st place winner, Poetry Section: Iain Davidson
|
Lomond Equinox Always the first hard run to the scouring of Spring snow East, to falling fishing fleets, fresh fields, lowland laws a plenty, Then frozen tyre tracks, frigid in heavey peat splattering jumps So to the summit where hands on knees are to stand aching |
2nd place winner, Prose Section: Dave Coustic
The Future of Himalayan Adventure
Just about anybody can walk up a hill if it is small enough, but mountains can be another matter. Perhaps that is one way to define the difference between the two words. However for the richest mountaineering experience the objective should never be a pushover. If the success is in doubt then the achievement of the goal is that much sweeter.
I have been climbing for most of my life, starting at the age of ten I seem to recall. Even in those days access to the more popular hills, and mountains if I want to continue distinguishing them, was becoming difficult. By the year 2067 the European government had complied with the dictates from the World Union in Caracas and severely limited access on the grounds of conservation. Now that the pressure of numbers was so great, the problems of litter, rescues and erosion had all contributed to more and more restrictions. The resurgence of some of the more fanatical religious types had also been a factor in the case of some of the higher and remote mountains. Many peaks soon had lengthy waiting lists and others were completely off limits. On top of this the cost of travel became increasingly prohibitive.
This would have left Nepal and some other poor countries with a loss of revenue but they had been considerably helped by the world taxation system. However the biggest way they earned income was from the licence fees for computer ascents of their peaks. Back in the middle part of the 21st century much discussion had taken place about how users of computers should pay for the benefits they gained from what might be called the underlying asset. Eventually agreement was reached on a scale of charges, which ranged from the simplest computer game right through to a full expedition.
As a result much of my time has been spent on climbing walls, frequently with the add-on facility of virtual reality. This has meant I have been able to climb, or at least attempt, just about any route. All the classics are available at most virtual reality climbing centres, though some of the major routes can be a bit pricey.
To celebrate my fiftieth birthday my regular climbing partner, Paul, and myself decided to go the whole hog and use the recently opened SuperSimulator in Sheffield. Here we have set out to climb Everest by the Southwest Ridge. This full assault was what Paul and I were now embarked upon and we knew when we had booked it that we would have to give it our all.
Travel simulators were very popular, and I knew that several of my colleagues and neighbours had used them for a week's holiday on an uncluttered beach, returning relaxed and tanned. All this of course happens without the possibility of travel delays or unfinished hotels and yet experiencing the holiday as if it was real.
The forecast for our trip was pretty good, though of course forecasts for any mountain areas are never too reliable, and those for the Himalayas could be quite wrong. We had chosen to have a forecast as accurate as it would have been for such a trip rather than have guaranteed good conditions. So it looked as if Paul and I were going to be lucky. We had saved a long time for this trip to Everest and it was quite an investment in both time and money.
Starting out from Namche Bazaar we made the normal approach to base camp over a couple of days. I had heard of plenty of people who had started nearer the mountain and higher up, but problems of acclimatisation were a major factor and we did not want to take any of the new wonder drugs. As with the weather forecast this was to be an attempt in classic style of the 1970's, when Himalayan mountaineering shook off its siege like tactics of earlier days, but before some of the later technological aids came along to ease matters. The local environment was from the same period, so that the villages and tea-houses were not spoilt by the large numbers of trekkers and mountaineers who were later to overwhelm and westernise such a unique lifestyle. The local Nepali people were every bit as friendly as I had ever imagined and it was great to take our time absorbing the atmosphere.
Base camp was much as I had expected from the books I had read and the photos and the films I had seen, but at least it was fairly free of debris. I had also spent some time studying the holographic images which were available. A full holographic display system was still too expensive for most individuals but for a small outlay one could spend a long time wandering through the archives of the British Library (3-D section). This was achieved by using the local library's holographic unit and downloading the relevant images. A great way to spend a wet evening and learn more about how those future projects would really look.
We made a final weather check, decided it was favourable and off we set with heavy loads but light spirits. Here we were, on the mountain at last, after all the years of dreaming and months of planning. As we climbed up the views became more and more spectacular and we made good progress on near perfect snow. We paused from time to time to take photographs, using replica film cameras.
Early starts in the cold and at high altitude never seem to get any easier and both of us struggled to get organised. No super-electric stoves for us, we were sticking to the technology of the 20th century. I must say I had been tempted by electricity. It was a remarkable development when batteries became so powerful that it was feasible to pack more energy space for space than into a gas canister, and with the ability to melt snow and boil the resulting water at incredible speed.
From our final camp at the South Col we made the summit bid. It was hard work at this altitude. I had thought I was pretty fit and had been training over a long period with regular trips into the mountains including some long alpine routes. However there is nothing like a lack of oxygen to slow you down. We had reached the foot of the Hilary Step when we first noticed the weather was beginning to show signs of a change. Nothing to speak of at first but it was clear that there was a fair chance of a storm within the next 48 hours. We concluded that there would be no problem to make the summit, and still get back to a reasonably low altitude before nightfall.
'Wow! This is fantastic. We really are on top of the world.' Maybe not an original comment but that is more or less what we each said as we reached the top and took the obligatory photos.
It is often after the completion of a climb that problems start. After a hard ascent, whether technically or, as in this case, physically, it is all too easy to relax too much; this is how mistakes can arise. Some 200 metres below the summit somehow a crampon came off and I slipped. I was at the upper end of the rope and we were moving together so this was really a no-no. I was slow off the mark and it took longer than it should have before I managed to self-arrest - not before I had hit something solid.
'You alright?' shouted Paul, once I had come to a stop some 30 metres above him.
'I think so' I replied tentatively, but then as I tried to move again. 'Shit! My knee's none too good.'
'Can you make it okay?' came Paul's understandably concerned reply.
'Yes, I think so. I'll have to anyway.'
I thought back to some of the epics that had taken place in the last century during the era of pioneering lightweight alpine style ascents. Two of the incidents which came to mind were Doug Scott descending the Ogre with two broken legs and Joe Simpson after his accident on Siula Grande. I would have to use these examples to keep me going. Although my knee was badly twisted I could walk after a fashion, but it would be a slow process. Had this happened within an hour or two of civilisation the problem would have been minor, but up here any incident such as this is very serious.
Despite 'only' being a simulator this was nevertheless a very real situation. The SuperSimulator is all too able to make most scenarios remarkably realistic. Avalanches, snowstorms and even falls of up to 30 metres can all be produced rather effectively, and of course cold temperatures and high altitude are easily produced.
I made it down to Paul and we took stock of the situation. I would go ahead with the rope to give me some protection, but we would continue to move together on most of the descent. From time to time however we came to steeper sections or patches of hard ice and here Paul needed to belay me. Of course the first result of this was that time passed all too quickly and darkness was upon us before we had reached a spot a few hundred metres above the South Col. We found ourselves a reasonable spot to dig in for the night, but it would not be comfortable.
We did not really sleep, but just dozed, and it was part way through the night that we realised the wind had got up.
'Sorry, Paul, looks like I might have blown it this time.
'Maybe the storm'll pass quickly.'
'Yes, let's hope so.
The next day the storm was in full spate and we were unable to leave our snowhole. We made a couple of brews to keep ourselves as rehydrated as possible but did not have huge resources of gas.
Another uncomfortable night passed while the storm continued unabated and we were now nearing disaster.
Perhaps one key difference between our attempt and that of Mallory and Irvine, for example, is that I can dictate this account and know it will be found. But when we defined the parameters for our booking of the simulator we elected for full reality - no rescue would be possible.