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We had discussed heading up to Aviemore in the early morning. Neil had suggested mysterious and mythological times like six and seven a.m. I had considered explaining to him that these times only existed in the imaginations of mathematicians and physicists like Stephen Hawking, but decided to flex the muscles of my greater mountaineering experience instead.
“Mountaineering,” I said, steepling my fingers and staring up at the ceiling as though sifting through the archives of an enormous bank of knowledge, “is a gentleman’s activity – and gentlemen do not get out of bed before eight a.m.”
This was, of course, nonsense. Mountaineering is far from a gentleman’s activity, being crammed to the rafters with charlatans, bullies, wastrels and arrogant fools. Many of whom rise on the wrong side of four a.m. in order to summit some Alpine or Himalayan peak.
Indeed, in such circumstances, the wisest option is to get up in the middle of the night in order to get up and down your chosen mountain before the melting effect of the sun causes you to get killed by an avalanche, collapsing serac or falling rock. What I had meant was I am a gentleman, and I do not get out of bed before eight a.m.
So, somewhere at the back of nine on Saturday morning, we climbed into my trusty old Citroen and left for the mountains. By the time we arrived in the car park of Cairngorm Ski Centre it was approaching noon, which is, by any standards, a thoroughly civilised time to set out on a mountaineering expedition.
The packs we swung onto our backs were heavy; it was winter and our intention was to spend that night in a snow-hole. Along with the usual accoutrements of winter mountaineering, such as warm clothes, ice axe and crampons; we had sleeping bags, bivi bags, a snow shovel, a stove and cooking equipment, sachets of easy cook pasta and a packet of hotdogs.
We took the Fiachaill ridge to the plateau, passing the few skiers who had bothered to show up to take advantage of the thin covering of icy snow. The lack of snow was a little bit of a worry, in fact, in that our shelter for the night relied on us finding a sufficient thickness to dig a snow-hole in.
We strode on, however, pinning our hopes on optimism. Our outline plan was to cross the Cairngorm plateau to Ben Macdui and snow-hole somewhere nearby. The following day we would drop down into the Lairig Ghru, that most famous of passes through the cairngorms, then climb up the other side to the summits of Cairn Toul and Braeriach. If there was not enough snow for a hole near Ben Macdui, we could always drop down into the Lairig Ghru that evening and stay in the Corrour bothy.
By the time we reached the plateau, the weather had closed in and the sky had filled with grey cloud. A freezing wind tugged at our clothes and nipped our faces and the air was heavy with moisture. Before long the cloud had dropped to envelop us, reducing the visibility to a few metres. Pulling out compasses, we set our bearing and walked on it, heading for the summit of Macdui.
We entered a strange white world without horizons: no land or sky, no distance or perspective. Just us, the crunch of the snow under our feet and the soft moan of the wind. It was as though the rest of the world did not exist, like it had vanished - to leave us tramping forever through the infinite mist.
Occasionally we would cross an area where the wind had scoured the snow from the plateau to reveal the granite boulders, moss and stunted grass below. These moments were curiously comforting; reminding us that there really was a mountain below our boots.
It is in just such conditions, so the legend goes, that the Old Grey Man of Ben Macdui appears. A mountaineer will be crossing the plateau in thick mist, marching on a bearing like we were doing. At first he will simply hear the occasional clatter of stone hitting stone, which, if he thinks about it at all, he will dismiss as rock-fall on one of the nearby cliffs.
Then, with a sudden tightening of the scalp, he will realise that the sound he can hear is footsteps. Not the short, unsteady footfall of a man walking over uneven ground, but the slow, rhythmic thumping of something inhuman. The footsteps approach fast: deliberate, menacing - heavy with diabolical purpose. There is nowhere to hide. The mountain is a cold and barren place, devoid of sanctuary from the horror that approaches - and many miles from the succour of humanity.
The mountaineer turns from the sinister footsteps, hurrying away from them. An icy hand caresses his pounding heart as he realises he is being pursued. He takes to his heels, but the footsteps continue to follow, getting closer and closer. Turning, the fleeing mountaineer sees vague shapes in the mist. A bounding creature, running upright, flailing limbs casting dark shadows across the clouds. Twelve feet tall - or twenty - it gains inexorably on the helpless mountaineer.
There can be only one outcome. The pursued man is driven into a madness of fear. Panic seizes him and he careers onwards; over moss, heather and broken rocks. Suddenly he finds himself on a steep slope of scree, tumbling downwards and out of control. He digs in his heels and scrabbles in futile desperation at the rocks with torn nails and bleeding fingers. He is over the cliffs of Lurcher’s crag before he even knows it - and falling through space to his death.
“Did you just hear something?” said Neil, scratching the end of his nose with his free hand and gesturing towards the south with his compass.
“No.” I said firmly and looked down to study the map. “Shouldn’t be far now.”
Sure enough, within ten minutes a jumble of boulders indicated that we had reached the summit of Ben Macdui, Scotland’s second highest mountain. Huddled in a crude roofless shelter of drystane walls, we pulled out the stove and brewed up. If ever there was a time for a nice hot cup of tea, this was it.
It had to be said, it wasn’t looking very promising on the snow-holing front. There was certainly lots of snow around, but no-where was it very thick. Certainly, we had not found any deep drifts suitable for burrowing into and spending the night. We decided to carry on down into the Lairig Ghru and stay at the Corrour bothy. If we found a suitable spot for a snow-hole on the way, so much the better.
We did not, however, find a suitable spot and an hour or so later we were crunching up an icy path to the door of the bothy. I flicked the latch and pushed; the door opened with a dull screech and a wave of warm air. Inside, it was busy with mountaineers and alive with conversation. There were six of them in all, enough to make the small stone building feel quite cramped.
A roaring fire was crackling in the grate, however, and a chorus of friendly ‘hallos’ greeted our entrance. We were damn glad to stop walking and this was a damn pleasant place to do it. After what felt like a woefully inadequate dinner of pasta ‘n sauce accompanied with hot dogs and Cadbury’s fruit and nut (not in the same bowl) we started thinking about sleeping arrangements.
It was clear the bothy would be a warm but cramped and noisy place to spend the night. And, no doubt, some of the otherwise personable residents would be the kind of mountaineer that indulged in the thuggery of early morning starts. Crashing about making breakfast, coughing and talking in hoarse whispers at some god-forsaken hour while more civilised types were trying to get some sleep.
I stuck my head out of the door and looked skyward. The cloud had cleared to leave a broad expanse of stars stretching from one mountainous horizon to other. It was cold, sure, but that was why I’d had spent such a ridiculous amount of money on a down sleeping bag and Gore-tex bivibag.
“I’m sleeping outside.” I announced, re-entering the warm fug of the bothy.
“Good idea.” Concurred Neil, who knows one when he sees one. “Me too.”
So we dragged our packs outside and unrolled our sleeping mats, bivibags and sleeping bags in the snow-frosted heather.
“Did you bring a hip-flask?” I asked, fingering my own, nestled in the chest pocket of my salopettes.
“Pff!” Replied Neil, who clearly did not think the question needed to be asked.
“What have you got?” he asked.
“Jura.”
“Nice. I’ve got Lagavulin.”
“Oooh.”
“Aye.”
“Still, the Jura is a nice, warming whisky on a cold night.”
“True.”
We stripped down to our thermals, stuffed our clothes in our packs and climbed shivering into our sleeping bags. There is no feeling quite like crawling into a down sleeping bag on a winter’s night in the wilderness. The soft folds of taffeta nylon envelop you as your body heat slowly warms the bag up. Around your face the air is cold and crisp and smells of snow.
You rub your arms and legs together and wriggle your toes in your woollen socks. As the warmth of your body begins to permeate the bag you can feel the stiffness in the muscles of your legs and shoulders relax. At last you can stop working; stop moving and thinking. Stop and simply reflect upon the day. Feel warm and dry and comfortable at last.
I unscrewed the lid of my hip-flask and took a little sip, feeling the heat of it on my lips. I’d already added a drop of water so it was just the way I like it. I lay back and stared at the stars, holding the whisky in my mouth, savouring the taste.
“Beautiful night.”
“Aye.” There was silence for a while.
“Oh, look,” said Neil, “there’s the pole star.”
“Where?” For all my ‘greater mountaineering experience’, I didn’t know how to find the pole star in the night sky.
Neil’s arm appeared from the folds of his bivibag.
“See the plough, there?”
“Yes.”
“See the two stars at the end of the… sort of square bit?”
“Er…”
“Well, follow those up and the pole star is the first bright star you come to.”
“Oh yeah!”
I was very pleased. There it was; a shining beacon over the crest of the Lairig Ghru, pointing the way north. This kind of learning in the field was the kind you don’t forget. Indeed, I can still see it, in my mind’s eye. The bright star filled sky and the silver, snow covered peaks gleaming softly in the moonlight. I can still smell the whisky and the heather and the frozen snow and still feel the luxurious warmth of that expensive down sleeping bag. And I remember, like it was yesterday, the sense of perfect contentment I felt as sleep overcame me.
The following morning the weather was still settled as we headed up the corrie to the north of the Devil’s Point. A pale blue sky, with a gossamer of thin, high-altitude clouds, held the promise of a fine day ahead.
A short, sharp ascent of about 450 metres took us up to the edge of the plateau. One moment, we were climbing slowly up a steep path on a precipitous mountainside, the next we were standing on the plateau; a wide vista of snow covered mountains below us. It is one of the great pleasures of mountaineering, that sudden change of perspective - from climbing below the mountain to standing on top of it.
After pausing for a while to appreciate the surroundings, we carried on, heading along the edge of the mighty cliffs that form the western side of the Lairig Ghru. It surely must be one of the finest walks in Scotland, that airy route from the Devil’s Point, past Cairn Toul and onto Braeriach.
By the time we reached the summit of Breariach, the cloud above us had thickened into a luminous blanket of rippling silver and grey. To the west, a sun of pale gold was heading for the horizon, taking its meagre warmth with it.
It was a long descent into the Lairig Ghru; my shoulders ached from the weight of my pack and my legs began to feel weak at the knees. We knew we had not brought enough food and it was now that I began to feel the consequences. I was tired and sore and wanted more than anything to be sat in a warm chip shop with a mince pie and chips in front of me. Brown sauce? Just on the chips, please. Anything to drink? Irn Bru… mmm…
Eventually, long after dark, we reached the bottom of the valley. Now, we just had to climb back out of it. Up a steep path to the Chalamain Gap, a narrow, boulder strewn defile through the hills to the east. We jumped from boulder to boulder on rubbery legs by the swaying, yellow light of our head torches.
And on, along an endless path through the heather. We could see lights now, the soft orange glow of streetlamps in Aviemore and the flickering yellow headlights of cars sweeping along tree-lined roads. We were on the home stretch. Down again, to a stream, and then up, one last time, to reach the road.
A final kilometre back to the car-park at the ski station. The asphalt road felt absurdly hard underfoot, every step a painful jolt to the bruised soles of my feet. My shoulders ached, my legs wobbled, my stomach growled for food.
There was the car, parked in lonely isolation in the middle of the car-park. Everyone else had gone home long ago. I had clean jeans in the boot, an old t-shirt and a warm jumper, even an old pair of cotton socks. Bliss.
We threw one rucksack in the boot, one in the back seat (it was a small car) and we were ready to go.
“Chips?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“Oh, aye!” came the reply. “Definitely getting chips!”
“Mountaineering,” I said, steepling my fingers and staring up at the ceiling as though sifting through the archives of an enormous bank of knowledge, “is a gentleman’s activity – and gentlemen do not get out of bed before eight a.m.”
This was, of course, nonsense. Mountaineering is far from a gentleman’s activity, being crammed to the rafters with charlatans, bullies, wastrels and arrogant fools. Many of whom rise on the wrong side of four a.m. in order to summit some Alpine or Himalayan peak.
Indeed, in such circumstances, the wisest option is to get up in the middle of the night in order to get up and down your chosen mountain before the melting effect of the sun causes you to get killed by an avalanche, collapsing serac or falling rock. What I had meant was I am a gentleman, and I do not get out of bed before eight a.m.
So, somewhere at the back of nine on Saturday morning, we climbed into my trusty old Citroen and left for the mountains. By the time we arrived in the car park of Cairngorm Ski Centre it was approaching noon, which is, by any standards, a thoroughly civilised time to set out on a mountaineering expedition.
The packs we swung onto our backs were heavy; it was winter and our intention was to spend that night in a snow-hole. Along with the usual accoutrements of winter mountaineering, such as warm clothes, ice axe and crampons; we had sleeping bags, bivi bags, a snow shovel, a stove and cooking equipment, sachets of easy cook pasta and a packet of hotdogs.
We took the Fiachaill ridge to the plateau, passing the few skiers who had bothered to show up to take advantage of the thin covering of icy snow. The lack of snow was a little bit of a worry, in fact, in that our shelter for the night relied on us finding a sufficient thickness to dig a snow-hole in.
We strode on, however, pinning our hopes on optimism. Our outline plan was to cross the Cairngorm plateau to Ben Macdui and snow-hole somewhere nearby. The following day we would drop down into the Lairig Ghru, that most famous of passes through the cairngorms, then climb up the other side to the summits of Cairn Toul and Braeriach. If there was not enough snow for a hole near Ben Macdui, we could always drop down into the Lairig Ghru that evening and stay in the Corrour bothy.
By the time we reached the plateau, the weather had closed in and the sky had filled with grey cloud. A freezing wind tugged at our clothes and nipped our faces and the air was heavy with moisture. Before long the cloud had dropped to envelop us, reducing the visibility to a few metres. Pulling out compasses, we set our bearing and walked on it, heading for the summit of Macdui.
We entered a strange white world without horizons: no land or sky, no distance or perspective. Just us, the crunch of the snow under our feet and the soft moan of the wind. It was as though the rest of the world did not exist, like it had vanished - to leave us tramping forever through the infinite mist.
Occasionally we would cross an area where the wind had scoured the snow from the plateau to reveal the granite boulders, moss and stunted grass below. These moments were curiously comforting; reminding us that there really was a mountain below our boots.
It is in just such conditions, so the legend goes, that the Old Grey Man of Ben Macdui appears. A mountaineer will be crossing the plateau in thick mist, marching on a bearing like we were doing. At first he will simply hear the occasional clatter of stone hitting stone, which, if he thinks about it at all, he will dismiss as rock-fall on one of the nearby cliffs.
Then, with a sudden tightening of the scalp, he will realise that the sound he can hear is footsteps. Not the short, unsteady footfall of a man walking over uneven ground, but the slow, rhythmic thumping of something inhuman. The footsteps approach fast: deliberate, menacing - heavy with diabolical purpose. There is nowhere to hide. The mountain is a cold and barren place, devoid of sanctuary from the horror that approaches - and many miles from the succour of humanity.
The mountaineer turns from the sinister footsteps, hurrying away from them. An icy hand caresses his pounding heart as he realises he is being pursued. He takes to his heels, but the footsteps continue to follow, getting closer and closer. Turning, the fleeing mountaineer sees vague shapes in the mist. A bounding creature, running upright, flailing limbs casting dark shadows across the clouds. Twelve feet tall - or twenty - it gains inexorably on the helpless mountaineer.
There can be only one outcome. The pursued man is driven into a madness of fear. Panic seizes him and he careers onwards; over moss, heather and broken rocks. Suddenly he finds himself on a steep slope of scree, tumbling downwards and out of control. He digs in his heels and scrabbles in futile desperation at the rocks with torn nails and bleeding fingers. He is over the cliffs of Lurcher’s crag before he even knows it - and falling through space to his death.
“Did you just hear something?” said Neil, scratching the end of his nose with his free hand and gesturing towards the south with his compass.
“No.” I said firmly and looked down to study the map. “Shouldn’t be far now.”
Sure enough, within ten minutes a jumble of boulders indicated that we had reached the summit of Ben Macdui, Scotland’s second highest mountain. Huddled in a crude roofless shelter of drystane walls, we pulled out the stove and brewed up. If ever there was a time for a nice hot cup of tea, this was it.
It had to be said, it wasn’t looking very promising on the snow-holing front. There was certainly lots of snow around, but no-where was it very thick. Certainly, we had not found any deep drifts suitable for burrowing into and spending the night. We decided to carry on down into the Lairig Ghru and stay at the Corrour bothy. If we found a suitable spot for a snow-hole on the way, so much the better.
We did not, however, find a suitable spot and an hour or so later we were crunching up an icy path to the door of the bothy. I flicked the latch and pushed; the door opened with a dull screech and a wave of warm air. Inside, it was busy with mountaineers and alive with conversation. There were six of them in all, enough to make the small stone building feel quite cramped.
A roaring fire was crackling in the grate, however, and a chorus of friendly ‘hallos’ greeted our entrance. We were damn glad to stop walking and this was a damn pleasant place to do it. After what felt like a woefully inadequate dinner of pasta ‘n sauce accompanied with hot dogs and Cadbury’s fruit and nut (not in the same bowl) we started thinking about sleeping arrangements.
It was clear the bothy would be a warm but cramped and noisy place to spend the night. And, no doubt, some of the otherwise personable residents would be the kind of mountaineer that indulged in the thuggery of early morning starts. Crashing about making breakfast, coughing and talking in hoarse whispers at some god-forsaken hour while more civilised types were trying to get some sleep.
I stuck my head out of the door and looked skyward. The cloud had cleared to leave a broad expanse of stars stretching from one mountainous horizon to other. It was cold, sure, but that was why I’d had spent such a ridiculous amount of money on a down sleeping bag and Gore-tex bivibag.
“I’m sleeping outside.” I announced, re-entering the warm fug of the bothy.
“Good idea.” Concurred Neil, who knows one when he sees one. “Me too.”
So we dragged our packs outside and unrolled our sleeping mats, bivibags and sleeping bags in the snow-frosted heather.
“Did you bring a hip-flask?” I asked, fingering my own, nestled in the chest pocket of my salopettes.
“Pff!” Replied Neil, who clearly did not think the question needed to be asked.
“What have you got?” he asked.
“Jura.”
“Nice. I’ve got Lagavulin.”
“Oooh.”
“Aye.”
“Still, the Jura is a nice, warming whisky on a cold night.”
“True.”
We stripped down to our thermals, stuffed our clothes in our packs and climbed shivering into our sleeping bags. There is no feeling quite like crawling into a down sleeping bag on a winter’s night in the wilderness. The soft folds of taffeta nylon envelop you as your body heat slowly warms the bag up. Around your face the air is cold and crisp and smells of snow.
You rub your arms and legs together and wriggle your toes in your woollen socks. As the warmth of your body begins to permeate the bag you can feel the stiffness in the muscles of your legs and shoulders relax. At last you can stop working; stop moving and thinking. Stop and simply reflect upon the day. Feel warm and dry and comfortable at last.
I unscrewed the lid of my hip-flask and took a little sip, feeling the heat of it on my lips. I’d already added a drop of water so it was just the way I like it. I lay back and stared at the stars, holding the whisky in my mouth, savouring the taste.
“Beautiful night.”
“Aye.” There was silence for a while.
“Oh, look,” said Neil, “there’s the pole star.”
“Where?” For all my ‘greater mountaineering experience’, I didn’t know how to find the pole star in the night sky.
Neil’s arm appeared from the folds of his bivibag.
“See the plough, there?”
“Yes.”
“See the two stars at the end of the… sort of square bit?”
“Er…”
“Well, follow those up and the pole star is the first bright star you come to.”
“Oh yeah!”
I was very pleased. There it was; a shining beacon over the crest of the Lairig Ghru, pointing the way north. This kind of learning in the field was the kind you don’t forget. Indeed, I can still see it, in my mind’s eye. The bright star filled sky and the silver, snow covered peaks gleaming softly in the moonlight. I can still smell the whisky and the heather and the frozen snow and still feel the luxurious warmth of that expensive down sleeping bag. And I remember, like it was yesterday, the sense of perfect contentment I felt as sleep overcame me.
The following morning the weather was still settled as we headed up the corrie to the north of the Devil’s Point. A pale blue sky, with a gossamer of thin, high-altitude clouds, held the promise of a fine day ahead.
A short, sharp ascent of about 450 metres took us up to the edge of the plateau. One moment, we were climbing slowly up a steep path on a precipitous mountainside, the next we were standing on the plateau; a wide vista of snow covered mountains below us. It is one of the great pleasures of mountaineering, that sudden change of perspective - from climbing below the mountain to standing on top of it.
After pausing for a while to appreciate the surroundings, we carried on, heading along the edge of the mighty cliffs that form the western side of the Lairig Ghru. It surely must be one of the finest walks in Scotland, that airy route from the Devil’s Point, past Cairn Toul and onto Braeriach.
By the time we reached the summit of Breariach, the cloud above us had thickened into a luminous blanket of rippling silver and grey. To the west, a sun of pale gold was heading for the horizon, taking its meagre warmth with it.
It was a long descent into the Lairig Ghru; my shoulders ached from the weight of my pack and my legs began to feel weak at the knees. We knew we had not brought enough food and it was now that I began to feel the consequences. I was tired and sore and wanted more than anything to be sat in a warm chip shop with a mince pie and chips in front of me. Brown sauce? Just on the chips, please. Anything to drink? Irn Bru… mmm…
Eventually, long after dark, we reached the bottom of the valley. Now, we just had to climb back out of it. Up a steep path to the Chalamain Gap, a narrow, boulder strewn defile through the hills to the east. We jumped from boulder to boulder on rubbery legs by the swaying, yellow light of our head torches.
And on, along an endless path through the heather. We could see lights now, the soft orange glow of streetlamps in Aviemore and the flickering yellow headlights of cars sweeping along tree-lined roads. We were on the home stretch. Down again, to a stream, and then up, one last time, to reach the road.
A final kilometre back to the car-park at the ski station. The asphalt road felt absurdly hard underfoot, every step a painful jolt to the bruised soles of my feet. My shoulders ached, my legs wobbled, my stomach growled for food.
There was the car, parked in lonely isolation in the middle of the car-park. Everyone else had gone home long ago. I had clean jeans in the boot, an old t-shirt and a warm jumper, even an old pair of cotton socks. Bliss.
We threw one rucksack in the boot, one in the back seat (it was a small car) and we were ready to go.
“Chips?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“Oh, aye!” came the reply. “Definitely getting chips!”
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