The Mountaineering Council of Scotland
Literary Competition 2007
by Joe Brown
The 2007 competition was judged by Ex-MCofS President, John Donohoe, Ex-MCofS Vice President and English Teacher, Ingrid Parker, Sport Development Officer and editor of Scottish Mountaineer, Kevin Howett, Press and Journal columnist and keen hill walker Mike Lowson and last year’s prose winner, Andy Cloquet.
There was a good variation in the style and themes in this year's prose entries and the judges were obviously drawn towards the same conclusion as to which entries merited special attention. Overall, ten submissions where received.
In joint third place were 'Above the clouds, below the stars' by Finlay Wild and 'In the Wilderness' by P.J.Biggar. Finaly’s ‘well paced and evocative’ account of a mountain top bivvy under the stars conveys an ‘almost tangible atmosphere’, whilst ‘In the Wilderness’ combines ‘a great eye for detail’ with some nicely conveyed recollections.
In a close second place was 'The Crossing' by David McVey. One judge’s review in particular commenting “Excellent …this had me absorbed from the start.” Whilst another judge was taken by the “steadily built tension” and “highly creative language.”
This year's clear winner in the Prose category was 'Reunion' by Nick Hamilton. All judges awarded high marks for this ‘well written, well observed human reunion’ and ‘genuine attempt at writing creative, captivating prose’.
There was an especially good showing in the poetry category with ten entries received and judges somewhat split over a close final result.
In third place was ‘Base Camp at Kuilu: Impressions’ by Angela Wright. A wonderful description of a passage through the mountains, whilst leaving no trace and taking only memories. In second place was ‘Creak and Groan’ by Rob Wright. Oh, how age and aching limbs come to us all, but Rob reminds us of the simple things that make it all worthwhile.
Phyllis Anderson’s, ‘The Cobbler’ draws some lovely parallel images between our beloved Cobbler and its shoemaking namesake in an “accessible, well paced piece”. The central character of such a well loved and familiar mountain, stirring the affection of most judges and gaining Phyllis first prize.
1st place winner, Prose Section: Nick Hamilton
Reunion
A short story
‘You’ve been gone a long time’, she said, but her words conveyed no trace of accusation or rancour; her voice was light and welcoming. She was standing behind the gate resting her brown forearms on the top rail; relaxed and cool with a slight smile on her face and her black curls cascading down the sides of her long dark face. Her eyelashes flicked up and down as she spoke and her speech was vibrant and clear; a young woman in her prime.
He walked the last few steps to the gate with some difficulty, leaning heavily on his stick. As he touched the rail he looked up at the dark brooding crag that rose behind the sweep of gorse in front of him. He sighed heavily, the lines that stretched away from his eyes seemed to pulse and deepen and he lowered his gaze to her arms, noticing her long slender fingers. She looked tenderly down on his curly white hair and touched it gently with one hand.
‘It’s good to be back’, he said as he pushed through the gate she had pulled open for him and they started up the track. It wound through the Whin and sparse rowan trees towards the scree and boulders that marked the end of the in-bye and the start of the rough grazing land.
She set in beside him and chatted as if he had never been away. The steadily climbing path wore heavily on him and his breathing was laboured and shallow.
As he rested on a rock he stared at the ground and idly moved the stones about with the tip of his stick. The scent of gorse in the afternoon sunshine was heavy in the air, oily and aromatic.
‘I had to go; you know that don’t you. I couldn’t stay afterwards, it was just too difficult’.
‘You don’t have anything to apologise for Douglas, I know you had to go. I’m glad you’ve come back though, I’ve been waiting a long time’.
After a little more walking he sat heavily down on a boulder at the foot of the cliff. Tears ran down his face and he lowered his head to hide his hurt.
‘Oh Mairi, what a waste; I should so like to tell you everything; but I’ve so little time and so much I want to say to you’.
‘Tell me where you went afterwards. That’s a good place to start’.
‘I didn’t go anywhere for months afterwards. The police kept asking questions and then there was the sheriff, the enquiry and everything. It was nearly a year before I could go away without it looking as if I was running away’.
‘Did you feel like you were running away’, she asked gently.
‘Of course I did’, he said fiercely, raising his head and looking into her steady brown eyes, I’ve never stopped running away. I had a family in Canada for a while but when the children grew up I didn’t want to stay any more and went off again. I couldn’t get you out of my mind’.
‘I’m sorry about your family but I’m pleased to think that you couldn’t forget me’ The anger in him subsided as quickly as it had risen leaving a pain that he had endured many times over the years but heightened and more severe than he had ever felt before. He gazed at her sitting beside him, calm and serene.
She spoke again. ‘I’ve been thinking about you all this time; just waiting for you to come back’. Her intensity cut him deeply and he lowered his gaze again.
‘But where have you been waiting? I don’t understand. I know you’re here and we’re talking to each other but there seems to be something wrong about it’
‘Oh, I’ve been climbing and walking most of the time. I’ve never gone very far away because I wanted to be here when you came back’.
‘But how did you know I would come back?’
‘You had to. It ended here the first time so it would have to end here finally for both of us’.
‘Mairi, Am I going to die here?’
‘Yes of course you are; that’s why you’ve come back’.
He looked away and tried to get his thought into order but his gaze soon returned to her face and his ears could hear nothing except her soft voice. She was exactly as he remembered her when they last climbed together and he couldn’t think of anything else but her and then.
‘What about your family? Have you been seeing them?’ he said eventually, more to break the spell than for any real interest in people he’d hardly known.
‘Yes, I see them around occasionally but they don’t notice me and I don’t want to trouble them. I haven’t seen my Dad or Mum for a long time though. Its easy to lose track of time you know’.
After a few moments silence she said quietly, ‘Just now you said you had so much to tell me, but you’ve hardly told me anything’.
‘I’m sorry for what happened and I’m sorry we didn’t spend our lives together. That’s all I really want to say. That’s all that really matters’.
‘Oh Douglas, we’ve got plenty of time together now. A lifetime really’.
‘Lets go climbing’ she said suddenly after a pause.
He jumped up ‘OK, where shall we go?’
‘I think we’d better finish what we started, don’t you.
‘Of course, but this time we’ll finish it properly; you know, both of us finish it. Not like the last time’.
They bounded up the scree towards the cliff, two heads of black curls flashing in the sunlight and their laughter echoing back from the rock face.
The old man lay back in the soft grass; the lines of torment that had shaped his features for most of his life had faded, dissipated. He closed his eyes.
‘Well Mairi, I’m back.’
1st place winner, Poetry Section: Phyllis Anderson
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The Cobbler Zig zag stitches, bound to sole, Icy beacon towers above. The Cobbler toils into night. Voices illuminate the bay. |
Joint 3rd place winner, Prose Section: P.J.Biggar
In the Wilderness
In the early evening I left the old van at Fain Bridge, shouldered my pack and set off up the rough heathery slopes past the mobile ‘phone relay station with its comical hat of turf; its little generator was purring away. Soon the sound was lost in the stiff east breeze and the only sounds were an occasional squelch as my foot found a bog hole, or a scrape as one of my sticks struck rock. May evening sunlight, no deer, no birds, no people, no path; only a choice of ways between tiny lochans on a broad moor.
Down by the bothy the light was fading.There were two young lads with a big black Labrador. They were just finishing their meal in the back room, so I got my stuff unpacked in the adjoining front room. I was tired and needed tea. I didn’t really want to talk but I had a few words with the lads - young southern professionals, they came up for a trip every year. One did most of the talking for them. They had climbed Ruadh Stac Mor and A’Mhaighdean that day and wanted to do the other four hills tomorrow. “What are you going to do?” asked the talkative one.
“Oh, I’ll see what the weather’s like and go for a walk.”
“Go for a walk!” The concept seemed foreign, plainly one needed to have Big Plans in this area. I got the primus going and offered them coffee water. After they went to bed I sat by candlelight in the bare room drinking my second mug of tea, then I tiptoed out to the burn to brush my teeth. Deer were grazing almost up to the walls of the cottage. Stars were appearing and the sky had a settled look.
Sleep was fitful on the hard wooden boards. Then all at once light was flooding through the velux window and I was wide awake. I hadn’t known which way I wanted to go, but circumstances had helped me make the choice: the lads were going to Beinn a’Chlaidheimh, good, then I’d go where they had been yesterday. You don’t come to a wilderness to seek out company. However, they set off just ahead of me, and, almost together, we crossed the flats and forded the river. Then I waved goodbye to them as I set off on the excellent path up Gleann na Muice. They had the strange idea that it was better to aim for the col between B.a’Chlaidheimh and Sgurr Ban rather than climb the former’s steep north ridge. I had tried, gently, to dissuade them from this the night before, but they had taken no notice. Now I could see them floundering in elephant heather on the trackless side of the river. I almost shouted to them. I felt sorry for the dog.
I felt excited, strong, fresh, almost young again. The valley was still in shade. I paused briefly at a stream. The cold water and the beauty of the pool had a calming effect and my body slowed down; everything became more rhythmical: legs, breathing, deep thumping of the heart; I moved on into the sunlight in the right hand fork of the valley. I climbed steadily to the point where I could see Loch Beinn Dearg, then steeply up the zig-zags of Clach na Frithealaidh to a broad expanse of moorland cut by peat hags and dotted with lochans. I sat by the burn to eat some bread and cheese, drink water and consider my route.
Only keepers, stalkers and shepherds get to know little pieces of the wilderness. I had climbed all the mountains I could see, but I knew I didn’t know any of them; because I knew this, I knew more than some. The young lads, floundering up to their dreadful col with the panting dog, hadn’t listened to me, but I had listened to them, in fact I’d even asked them which way they’d gone to Ruadh Stac Mor and the talkative one had shown me on the map. Their way was excellent: the lads had done me a favour. The wind struck me on the summit, but the sunlight was strong and I felt I was really making progress. Wanting to get out of the wind, I hurried down a short way and took shelter among the rocks to eat and drink a little more.
On the descent I got out my sticks to save my knees. Now, with a following wind, they fairly propelled me up the slopes of A’Mhaighdean, a faint path leading me through pale, winter burnt turf, round little outcrops of grey gneiss which contrasted with the red rubble of the Ruadh Stac, into old snow patches and out again and on and on to the mystical heart of Fisherfield where I stood gazing down into the deep coire encircling Fuar Loch Mor and beyond that to the cliffs of Carnmore and the distant expanse of the Fionn Loch leading the eye into the western horizon. There too were the great cliffs of Beinn Lair and nestling in the depths between me and them, the fairy ridge of Beinn Tharsuinn Chaol on which I have never set foot.
My little walk was taking me round in a gentle horseshoe. Now, I turned my back to the west and set foot on country I had not been on before. For sure I had climbed all these hills in the past, but singly, or in pairs and from different directions, now I was experiencing the links in the chain, trying to put the whole thing together. I became conscious of the length of the eastern half of the circuit and averted my eyes.
The initial descent from A’Mhaighdean was delightfully soft under foot and at an easy angle but
the part to the col between A’Mhaighdean and Beinn Tarsuinn could be awkward in cloud as the ridge is discontinuous and there are crags to the left guarding the Pools of The Pigs from which Gleann na Muice takes its name. Today it was easy and I was soon sitting at my ease on a heathery bank. At 525 metres this was the low point of my day, coming after a long descent and with the prospect of a long climb ahead. It was the low point physically, but not spiritually - I felt good, but I was hungry. I rummaged in my bag for food. Today I had a treat - a sort of spicy, sticky, iced tea-cake spread with butter. I had a secret weapon too - Auld Broon’s Magic Powder - it must be magic because he’s still putting up E-grade rock climbs all over the north west and he’s over seventy! I lay back in the heather contented and hopeful. No men, no animals, no birds, almost no sounds, just the breeze on the grass and the warming sunlight, almost no thoughts, consciousness purged by steady physical effort and the presence of extreme beauty in which to lose oneself, to experience the weakening of the barrier between the self and the world, to feel at one, and not at odds, with all there is: however little one might understand it.
But one can’t stay long in any place or in any state of mind. I took up my sticks and followed animal tracks through the heather and past peat hags where the deer had been rolling. Magic powder, sticks and trickery, I needed them all to get me up that slope. Sticks clicked, feet found rhythm again, the wind found me too and I took off my sweat soaked hat and let it riffle my thinning hair.
A pair of Ptarmigan crept away as I descended Beinn Tarsuinn. Both birds were still half white and I caught the splash of crimson above the male bird’s eye. They were most anxious to lead me away from their nest and I was most anxious to be led. Only when we had gone quite a way did they fly round in a semi-circle, their whiteness standing out against the dark hollow of the coire below. I hoped I had not betrayed them to an eagle and hurried on.
From the slopes of Beinn Tarsuinn I had seen something I remembered: the merciful little path which traverses the north-west slopes of Meall Garbh, an awkward lump on the ridge; bypassing it saves effort.
The lads were sitting by the cairn on Mullach Coir Mhic Fearchair; they looked tired; the dog, stretched out full length amongst the rocks, looked exhausted. The talkative one looked at me quizzically:
“So you are going all the way, then?”
I smiled.
“It’s beginning to look like that.”
Before they set off, wearily, for Beinn Tarsuinn, I was able to tell them about the little path round Meall Garbh, repaying their tip about the route to A’Mhaighdean. Again I felt sorry for their dog.
The descent from the Mullach was steep and rocky but not too bad. The ascent of Sgurr Ban was all right so long as one kept well to the left and I did, but the descent was a curse. I chose the seemingly easier way to the right but this way lies through over half a mile of wobbling quartzite blocks guaranteed to destroy a fresh walker’s rhythm. Passing the remarkable stone igloo which has been constructed near the foot of this nightmarish slope, I felt the most enormous relief when I came to the two little lochans on the gentle bealach below Beinn a’Chlaidheimh and I sank down on the short grass to rest and eat the last of my sticky tea-cake. Here too, I got out my mobile ‘phone and managed to contact my wife, just to tell her I was about to go up my last hill. I could picture Angie scurrying about in the kitchen trying to get dinner ready, the contrast with the peace and tranquillity of my situation could hardly have been greater - except that we were both tired. I felt slightly lonely after I switched the ‘phone off, but physical weariness blunts most emotions and I lay back in the short grass with my tea-cake and a last dose of magic powder.
The evening sun was warm as I climbed slowly over the triple tops of Beinn a’Chlaidheimh. Below me Strath na Sealga was bathed in light while deep Gleann na Muice to my left was in shadow. The descent was all that was left. Sticks scarted from rocks, feet slipped on muddy patches, holes gaped under tangled stems. My light trousers became spattered with mud, but ever so slowly the valley floor rose to meet me.
The heat was at its worst as I neared the bottom and a few early midges sensed my sweaty presence and made me hurry down. That slope went on for too long, but at last I was on level ground and making my way over the shaggy moorland towards the stunted Alder trees by the river. The big, white, water worn stones were standing proud of the clear water. On the far bank Wood Anemone and Primroses had escaped the sheep’s attention. Then I was walking up through the meadows where brightly coloured tents had sprung up like huge exotic flowers to where Shenavall gave promise of tea and coolness. It was about half-past-six.
That was the end of the walk, but not of the experience. I took off my sweaty shirt and vest and put them on the low dyke round the rowan tree. I put my boots to dry in the sunlight, and went deliciously barefoot in the short, dry, cool grass. I staggered to the stream and got water. I got the primus on and sat by it in the cool, aromatic room. How good not to have to talk, just to be able to sit and let the mind go blank while my toes wriggled on the dusty floor. How lucky to have a chair to sit on and a wall to rest my back against.
Some two hours after I got back to Shenavall I saw the lads and the black dog coming up through the meadows. The dog looked quite recovered by his dip in the stream and was pulling the talkative one along. I had water boiling for them. The big dog, remembering how tired he really was, flumped down and went to sleep. They had finished by traversing Beinn Tarsuinn and then walking back down the length of Gleann na Muice: a thirteen hour day and they weren’t finished yet: they were intent on packing up and walking to the road! Maybe, if they hurried, they’d get a meal in Ullapool! The talkative one wasn’t so talkative any more; the quiet one smiled and said he must ‘stay focussed’. They fed the dog, packed up and headed for the door. As an afterthought the talkative one said: “What’s on the cards for tomorrow?”
“Oh, just a wee stroll back to the road.”
He grinned ruefully:
“A wee stroll like today,eh?”
The sun was turning the muddy path to dust as I trudged back over the moor. I had a last drink from a deep pool over which busy spiders had strung their webs. Coming over the last rise I heard a car. The van was just where I had left it and Destitution Road stretched hard and black in front of us, but oh, how rich I felt!
Joint 3rd place winner, Prose Section: Finlay Wild
Above the Clouds, Below the Stars
The festivities had brought me home to Fort William and on Christmas Eve I found myself in Glencoe atop Sgor na h-Ulaidh with my dad. We were in awe of a beautiful cloud inversion which floated below us to the south, shielding the valleys with a cloak of cool air. I remember looking north to Ben Nevis and its winter cap of snow and really wanting to be there. Four hours later we were back home and I was hastily alternating between frantic last minute wrapping of presents and getting my hill gear ready. The upshot was that at about half six in the evening - as kids everywhere were getting the sherry and carrot ready for Santa by the fireplace - I set out from Glen Nevis to walk up the Ben by the tourist track; in the dark, and with a heavy rucksack.
Of course, low down everything was clouded over and it was hard to imagine getting any sort of views from higher up. My headtorch reflected off the mist and everything felt generally damp. But as I made my way up the track I ascended into the layer of cloud and gradually started to pick out stars shining through the mist from above. Gaining more height I became aware of the top layer of cloud lying below me: a blanket over the cold valley.
Having been based in the city for months, I had forgotten how powerful the stars are on a clear night. There were just billions of them - to state the obvious! Going across the flat ground above the halfway lochan I was able to switch my headtorch off and walk by the starlight alone. Later on, the crescent moon turned orange as it set to the west. Faint glows shone upwards through the clouds from above the illuminated towns: Fort William, Spean Bridge, Corpach…
Donning axe and crampons for the final steep section and plateau I was pretty pleased to finally see the familiar sight of the trigpoint and emergency shelter looming out of the darkness beyond my yellow oval of artificial light. Reaching the summit plateau I thought about the huge north face standing just a stone’s throw away through the darkness. The great and sometimes tragic history of this place was more pertinent to me now than ever as I let my thoughts drift to all those lost in the mountains. Even though I have been up Ben Nevis many times it felt very different now in the dark, alone with my thoughts.
Thinking about most nights of our lives when we dream in bed at lower altitudes, I considered how little time I have spent bivvying out under the stars amidst the solemn, silent mountains. Maybe this was why I found the whole experience so thrilling; it was really my first time on a summit for the night. I finally crunched over to the summit at about nine o’clock, put on loads of layers, and then went to check out the emergency shelter.
It must have been a bit freaky for the two guys trying to sleep in said shelter when from the darkness came the clang of my ice axe on the door, followed by a head and shoulders looming in on them, dazzling them with headtorch light. While it all looked very cosy, I wanted to take in the starry heavens so headed back out into the night to set up my bivvy bag behind one of the ruined walls of the old observatory. It must have been amazing for the scientists all those years ago, when nights like this one broke the rule of cloudy, wet ones.
As I had taken the effort to lug my camera gear up the hill I got my tripod set up and attempted some long exposure star shots. In between adjusting the camera, I wandered around near the summit trying to take it all in. Some epic music on my MP3 player made the whole experience pretty surreal as I danced around trying to keep warm. I felt an affinity with the pagans who danced around fires under the infinite canvas of stars, worshipping nature – although probably not on the summit of the Ben! Initially it felt pretty eerie walking about exposed atop our highest peak under such a brilliant sky. Maybe I have been watching too many sci-fi movies, but I remember feeling that if anything supernatural was to happen to me it should be now; on this volcanic alter beckoning to the cosmos. Needless to say nothing did happen; except that I continued to be mesmerised by the natural beauty of the world, and also reminded of our utter insignificance in this gigantic universe. And that was enough, frankly.
Some more photos, more layers, and the last cuppa from my flask and it was time for some sleeping bag-based star gazing. It was pretty cold during the night, but the reward each time I woke up was the universe shining back at me from through the gap in my bivvy bag.
Waking at about half seven the dawn views were as good as I had hoped. Looking east towards Schiehallion a beautiful orange band grew, sandwiched between the clear sky and the fantastic sea of cloud that extended pretty continuously in all directions. Peaks poked through from below like icebergs amidst the tumultuous sea, or Antarctic mountains piercing the engulfing ice.
Suddenly the sun crept over the lip of the Earth and started rising; orange to yellow; bright; warm; alive. It was almost like I was doing laps of the summit as I walked from side to side, taking pictures and memories. As the sun continued its endless arc, ephemeral shades lit the barren mountain top. The warm rays were well received after a long night, and I had to work hard to remind myself that I was in an inhospitable place. But such a place it is, and camping out or doing a moonlit ascent could be dangerous in the wrong conditions.
After an hour or so my stomach was starting to worry about why I wasn’t at home prioritising my position at the table for Christmas lunch. I made my way back along the plateau - which looked a lot more familiar in the daylight - and starting descending towards the fluffy clouds. Before I knew it I was engulfed in grey and it was hard to imagine I had just come from such a contrasting place. Now there was definitely no reason to hang around as there were no views, it was damp and Christmas activities awaited.
Heading down the track I counted 32 people walking up towards me on their morning calorie burner. It’s certainly to be recommended as a way of making a little extra space for festive treats. It was a satisfying feeling to be able to tell people that the cloud would soon part as they ascended and a brilliant vista awaited them. I felt like Santa!
Back in Fort William it was still Christmas morning even though I felt like I had already had a rewarding day on the hill. Feeling pretty satisfied, I tucked into an extra large portion of dinner with no worries. Later, I came across a quote from John Muir which articulates really well the feeling of that day:
“The grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never dried all at once; a shower is forever falling; vapour is ever rising. Eternal sunrise, eternal dawn and gloaming, on sea and continents and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls.”
For me this sums up the eternal beauty of our wild places. They aren’t designed to be beautiful and they certainly don’t make a special effort to impress on particular days; but in our minds there are times when we are just blown away by the vast and silent grandness of our mountains and our world.