After Callander the glimmering countryside grows wilder and more desolate. Long slopes suddenly swoop upwards, the snow deepens as we skirt the wilderness of Rannoch Moor and wind down towards Glencoe. As we near the infamous Clachaig Inn I think back on the last time I was here, sixteen years ago. High on adrenalin, youth and Pale Ale at 2s. 3d. a pint, I’d stood in a corner in full hippie regalia – the gold cloak, quilted tea cosy for a hat, peacock feathers, the strawberry tunic, oh my God – and thrashed out Incredible String Band songs into a small bar dense with steam, smoke and climbers so large and hairy it was hard to tell where beards ended and sweaters began. Climbers must be exceptionally tolerant, and such was the confidence of youth and the mood of the times that I got off with it, even had a few drinks bought me. Then at closing time walked out with a nurse from Glasgow into the black night to try yet again to lose my virginity, mind intoxicated with Pale Ale, adventure and the great sensed bulk of the mountains …
Now I can’t even recognize the interior. The clientele are much the same, only now they look younger and smaller. A motley crew: straggly hair, gaiters, training shoes, bare feet, old jeans, blue fibre-pile salopettes, bright red Gore-Tex jackets, moving from table to table talking gossip or snow conditions, arm wrestling, playing pool. A number of girls too, some looking decorative and bored, others decidedly capable.
Mal’s clearly well known and respected here. A constant stream of people come up to our table. Climbers’ talk. ‘Tower Ridge … still seconding all the time … solid for its grade … knew he was going to lob, so … Whitesnake … the crux after the chockstone … wiped out in Peru …’ It’s all new to me, exotic and bewildering, but I sense some interesting interactions behind these casual exchanges. Allegiances and rivalries, the seeking and withholding of information, put-downs and half-acknowledged challenges. How much a casual remark such as ‘I thought it a soft touch at Grade 5’ can imply! It suggests that for the speaker the climb was easy, that he is familiar with real Grade 5s, it inquires after the listener’s capability and casts aspersions on his friend who first climbed and rated the route. Just how good are you, anyway? ‘I found it hard enough last time,’ Mal might reply mildly. This counterstroke makes it clear that he has climbed it, and more than once, that he doesn’t need to pretend a hard climb was easy to bolster his reputation …
In fact, it’s just like the literary world. Competition and cooperation; jostling over places in an invisible league table; ideological, personal and geographical divisions. The Aberdeen crowd here to show the others what real climbing is, the hard men up from the North of England to make their point, the Central Scotland boys protecting their patch … Yes, very familiar.
‘Who are you?’ one youth asks me, uneasy he can’t place Mal’s new partner. ‘I’m a guitar player.’ Pause. ‘What are you doing up here, then?’ ‘Learning a few new chords.’ He looks baffled, scowls and retreats. Mal grins and agrees that though climbing itself may be a pure activity, there’s nothing pure and disinterested about the social side of it. Everyone seems extraordinarily vague about what they’re going for tomorrow.
Tony Brindle and his climbing partner Terry Dailey walk in the door. Tony’s one of the lead climbers for Mustagh, the only one I’ve met other than Malcolm. Handshakes all round, it’s good to see a familiar face. I’d seen him last at Mal and Liz’s wedding, carried off to do a Dashing White Sergeant by two tall girls and grinning wildly. Even sober as now, he’s still bouncy and hyper-enthusiastic. As he chatters away about past and future routes it suddenly strikes me who he reminds me of: Davy Jones of the Monkees. Small, looks as if butter wouldn’t melt, innocent brown eyes, hair in a neat fringe, something about Tony makes one want to pat him on the head. He’s twenty-three and looks about fifteen. I think he both resents and plays up to it. It’s hard to imagine that he’s recognized by his peers as having quite exceptional stamina and self-reliance. There must be steel somewhere behind that baby face. Who or what put it there?
‘So where are you taking Mal tomorrow?’ he asks me, for the benefit of Mal who’s locked in conversation about this season’s big challenges on ‘the Ben’, i.e. Ben Nevis.
‘Oh, I don’t know, we’ll just poke around,’ I reply in the prescribed vague manner. ‘Maybe warm up with Smith’s Gully and see what he’s up to. Then we’ll take a look at something more serious.’ Now we have a few attentive ears at the next table. Mal twitches slightly but can’t get out of his conversation.
Tony grins, replies in his Lancashire accent, ‘Yeah, he’s a bit lazy is Duff. The old fella’s buggered. Still, he’ll second anything you lead.’
‘Thought I’d maybe give him a couple of leads if he’s shaping up …’
Mal is saved from further roasting by the arrival of more friends I recognize from the wedding. A big boozy night that was; the climbers there all gravitated towards the corner of the room and spent the night talking about the only relevant subject at such occasions – climbing. They’re obsessed, but it’s an interesting obsession, for the first couple of hours at least.
And so that first night at the Clachaig rolls on. Red faces, swollen knuckles, diminishing pints, growing excitement and anticipation as hopes and plans build for tomorrow. At least they don’t train on orange juice and early nights. Their regime seems to be one of alcohol, nicotine, late nights and systematic abuse, both verbal and bodily. Suits me.
I stand outside our chalet door for a few minutes before going to bed. The air is clear and cold, smelling unmistakably of snow. Clouds move across a three-quarter moon and sweep enormous shadows over the glimmering slopes across the glen. Passing voices ring hard in the frost. Orion is rising, the wind whispers over the snow, distant echoing water. I feel uplifted and self-forgetting before the irresistible forces of moon, shadow, mountains, snow. This alone was worth coming here for. I shake my head and go inside. See what tomorrow brings. Hope I’m up to it. I’ve been training two months for this.
The wind’s gusting spindrift into our faces, but my new gear keeps me surprisingly warm as we plod up through soft, deep snow into Lost Valley. We go over ice-axe braking and the placing of ‘deadmen’, which are in effect snow anchors. Then the fun’s over. Time to do some climbing.
My heart thuds wildly as we gear up, I have to force myself to breathe slowly and deep. Concentrate. I buckle on the harness, tie in the rope, get the knot right on the second attempt. Then strap the crampons onto my cumbersome rigid-soled double boots. The cramps are like heavy-duty running spikes, with two additional fangs projecting out in front. Then I sort out my two ice axes. Both have sharply inclined picks with teeth notched towards the tip; the head of one ends with a hammer for knocking in and removing pitons, while the head of the other ends in an adze for cutting steps. Apparently this is largely redundant, as the combination of front-pointed crampons and inclined picks make step-cutting unnecessary in most situations.
I feel absurd and overburdened, like a deep-sea diver in a paddling pool, as I follow Mal up the steepening slope. It’s not steep enough – he says – to merit belaying. I keep my gaze determinedly at my feet. Slip, flurry, recover. Continue. Untangle these stupid axes. Stop tripping over the crampons. Up and across, don’t like traverses, getting pretty high now. Don’t look, watch your feet, time for doing, not thinking. How clear the sounds are: scrape of crampons on rock, scrunch of boots in snow, jingling harness, echoing wind, a faint mewing cry …
We look up and spot a figure waving awkwardly further up John Gray’s Buttress. ‘Looks like he’s got gripped,’ says Mal. ‘Kick yourself a ledge and wait here.’ I feel a moment’s pleasant superiority over the incompetent up ahead, then a surge of fellow feeling. Mal tries to persuade him to climb down, but the shake of the head is vehement even from here. I look down. Safe enough really, but just the same … Mal climbs further up, secures a belay. In crabbed, awkward movements the man picks his way down. When he finally passes me, he’s white-faced and embarrassed. ‘Snow’s tricky in patches,’ he mutters apologetically. I agree politely.
A shout from Mal. He’s waving me up towards a ledge on the left beside a steep drop into a narrow gully, then adds something I can’t catch. By the time I reach the ledge, he’s