Just Another Mountain Page 2

  As I reached the cairn on the 810m peak I yelled out again as I spun about in celebration: my first hillwalk, all on my own.

  I took off my rucksack to get a drink but the zip had frozen and my efforts to yank it open were in vain. Now I was also feeling cold. Snow whirled in frenzy around me. I looked at my surroundings, hastily trying to gather my bearings while realising that it had only taken that brief moment of spinning to become disorientated. I was at the top, so I simply had to go down, but which way?

  I turned my back to the buffeting wind. There was nothing to see. I was enveloped by an impenetrable wall of white. I cursed myself for not having a map or compass, but then what good would either be when I didn’t really know how to use them? I cursed myself again. Fanny.

  I had climbed Meall a’ Bhuachaille once before; I’d done it the previous summer with my stepdad Frank and was sure I remembered the route – however, my present situation seemed anything but simple. As my mind reached into the past, desperately trying to clutch at any tiny fragment of conversation we might have had about the way off this mountain, I thought of Frank with his new family: he would be with them, safe, warm and tucked up indoors, but by fuck I wished he was here instead.

  I think I have to go straight over this summit, down the other side, and just make sure I keep left. I vaguely remembered wide, open moorland that lay to the right of the hill and didn’t want to end up wandering around lost down there either. Turning back round, I went to pick up my bag, which I’d left by the cairn, and promptly sank deep into the snow. My foot had stepped into nothing, and for a split-second I thought I was falling through a crevasse and was going to die. Waist deep, I hit solid ground. I freed myself by sprawling across the snow, rolling, sliding and then scrambling, laughing with embarrassment at my own stupidity. Somewhere in the clouds a helicopter flew close by. ‘Maybe it’s for me,’ I joked. ‘Right, come on, blockhead. Let’s get below the treeline and you’ll be fine then.’

  My favoured method of descent was by sliding on my backside, and I was glad to have decent waterproofs. But overall, I was not best prepared; my inexperience of mountains and lack of any sense of fear were childlike. The real risks of winter walking hadn’t entered into my head.

  When there were no clear spaces to slide, I walked. The aromatic scent of pines filled my lungs and memory on that crisp afternoon, and aside from being stabbed by twigs and needles from low branches as I brushed a way downwards, I felt true contentment: I didn’t have to think about trying to feel happy, I just was. Busy with the task at hand, there was no room in my mind to dwell on the sorrows or anxieties that otherwise overshadowed my life. I was free, living in the moment. Maybe that had been the lure of long walks for my mum.

  From a high stance on the steep, wooded hillside I saw what I thought was a track a couple of hundred metres below – there was a bright-yellow shape on it that looked human. I felt like a lost adventurer who had just discovered a way out of the most hazardous and wild environment known to man, and I wanted to catch up with that person – or people.

  It took longer than anticipated, but after a last hurdle – squelching through some sticky black bog – I reached the path. The bright yellow was a jacket worn by one of a trio, all of whom were studiously looking at what I thought was a map, but when I was almost upon them I realised it was a GPS. I didn’t know anything much about GPS units then, but it didn’t matter. All I cared about was finding out where I was – and the thought of getting back to my car was hugely appealing. My feet were ready to be released from Mum’s Brashers, my toes felt fiery and desperate to be relieved from their boot-prison and rubbed.

  I moved forward to say hello to the small group. With brief greetings over, it transpired that my saviours were as happy to have met me because they were hoping that I could help them. They didn’t have a clue how to work the GPS. So we all walked back and forth and around and around together. I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever find our way back when, for the second time, I heard the unmistakable sound of air slapping off rotor blades. A yellow Sea King hovered overhead, preparing to land in a nearby field. I dashed up a small, steep bank to see it and was surprised by the unexpected sight of the sprawling outdoor-activity centre, Glenmore Lodge. I squealed with delight; my car was parked just beyond the building.

  Boots and waterproofs off, I was on the road – wanting and not wanting to go home. The day hadn’t gone entirely to plan; weather conditions in combination with my lack of experience and equipment could have spelt disaster. I had, however, enjoyed myself to the full, battling the elements but ‘living to tell the tale’ of my first autonomous venture into the hills. It had been invigorating, and I had felt alive in a way that I had not done for so many years.

  Eleven years actually, ever since Mum died.

  Back at home, I thought of her as I placed her boots by the hearth to dry. The brown Brashers had looked after me and kept my feet warm at the start of the day, but now they felt heavy and smelt of leathery dampness. I would definitely need my own pair at some point. Still, those sodden boots had connected me to her out on the hillside, had helped me feel closer to her. How I wished right then that I could tell her about the day I’d spent. She’d have shaken her head disapprovingly but would have said she was glad I’d had a good time and that I’d probably learnt a valuable lesson. When she said these sorts of things I usually hadn’t learnt much at all and would go on to make similar mistakes but in a different way. Mum had always erred on the side of caution, preparing well for most things, preferring to reduce the element of risk. We both had to learn that sometimes life has other plans.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Coincidence or Fate

  Back to Bhuachaille, May 2008/

  Bynack More — The Big Cap, May 2008

  Driving back from Meall a’ Bhuachaille that day, as the miles between me and home decreased the familiar feeling of dread crept in. On the hill it had been just me pitted against nature and the rugged terrain. But now I had to return to my real life: back to supply teaching, while waiting to begin my probation year; back to horrible neighbours and a leaking roof; back to the troubles of my marriage. I was already yearning to feel that sense of escape again, and so not long after my snowy adventure I returned to Meall a’ Bhuachaille with my husband, Sam. I hoped he would feel a connection to nature, as I had, and share that sense of life’s worries being put firmly into perspective. I hoped it would become something we could do together, a new common ground, reaching for boots instead of a bottle.

  I’d met Sam in 2004. It was seven years after Mum’s death and now, with two small boys at my heels, I was working weekend shifts at a pub, and I hadn’t been there long before the pub’s leasehold was taken over by Sam. At forty-five he was older than me by thirteen years, but he didn’t look it. I liked to watch him as he stood at the jukebox. He was tall, had a strong jawline, jet-black hair and cool sideburns. Always smartly dressed in suits and with a broad Glaswegian accent, he had the look and sound of a gangster; he had edge – I liked that. And he was what my grandad would have called a man’s man, old school when it came to paying for dinner or walking on the outside of the pavement. At first he made me feel like I was the centre of his world.

  We became more deeply involved when his marriage failed, and when my ninety-one-year-old grandfather’s health was declining quickly. Neither of us was in a good place emotionally, but, as fools do, and ignoring the sage advice my grandad had offered back in my student days, I rushed headlong into the new romance.

  Sam had a huge capacity for kindness and was great fun, but when he was fuelled by alcohol he was wild – we both were. I was fascinated by his darker side. I wanted to unearth its roots and understand him . . . or maybe I thought he was just like me, lost and lonely . . . maybe I thought we could save each other.

  Drink was always involved when we first started seeing each other, and I was too busy being caught up in the excitement of our flirtations to think too much about how wrecked either of us wo
uld get. At the end of our evenings, when I would leave Sam and go home, he came across all hurt and dejected – as if he couldn’t bear us to be parted. Nobody had ever looked at me in such a way before.

  After I gradually introduced him to my sons, Marcus and Leon, Sam moved in with me. For a while I felt he gave me stability. He treated my erratic moods with kindness and a hug, and took care of me when I was low. And he was understanding when dementia tightened its grip on my grandfather, and I wanted to spend more time with him and give some extra help.

  During his army career my grandfather had been well respected, with a reputation of being firm but fair; and it’s true to say this was the case at home too. He’d once been a good footballer and won loads of medals; he was an even better tennis player, but more surprisingly he was an excellent Highland dancer. He had never been one to boast and he’d never been one to take his work home with him. But now, both in body and mind, dementia had reduced him to a shadow of his former self.

  I remember first noticing the signs when I saw him greeted warmly by an old colleague who seemed to know him very well, and who spoke with him for several minutes.

  ‘Who was that?’ I asked, after the man walked away.

  ‘I haven’t a bloody clue, dear,’ came the answer.

  Sam never knew the man my grandad had once been, but I was glad they had met. Sam even asked him for my hand in marriage. Poor Grandad, he was confused. He mistakenly thought that Sam was an officer and asked what regiment he was attached to before shaking his hand warmly and saying, ‘I’d be honoured to have you marry my daughter.’ I doubt my grandad would have been so approving if he’d known the troubles and arguments that went on between us, even then.

  When we drank, Sam was always first to tip over the edge. If I had been my younger self I would have carried on drinking too, descending with him into a well of depression and self-pity. I understood it was the drink talking when Sam’s insecurities roared to the surface, but my best efforts to placate and reassure him were wasted.

  As time went on, I kept making excuses to myself and often recited internal lists as to why we should stay together. At the top was always the hope that he would change. Things hadn’t worked out with either of my children’s fathers and I didn’t want to fail at another relationship. My kids liked him and Sam was fond of them too. I was sure that having a constant father figure in their lives could only be a positive thing for them, and their happiness was paramount. In short, I convinced myself that I needed him. And, of course, anything was better than being alone, so I clung on. Despite the upsets and fights, I’d attempted so many times to reconcile the feelings I had about my marriage: and now the hills were a last resort for its rescue.

  To avoid repeating my previous walk exactly, my plan was to do the Meall a’ Bhuachaille circuit in reverse, hiking over the smaller tops Craigowrie and Creagan Gorm first. It would make for a longer and more satisfying day out, and there would be less chance of meeting anybody else on this route. It would be just us and the elements, exactly how I liked it. But this time I made sure I checked the weather forecast – and that I had a map and compass, even though I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure I knew what I was doing with either. Of course there was also the not so small matter of childcare to sort out. Finding someone to look after the boys wasn’t always the easiest thing to arrange. Without having my own mum to turn to, I asked my children’s paternal grandparents for help. Though they had contact with their grandchildren there was no real relationship between me and them, so I’d felt awkward for asking, as though I was taking advantage when I knew I’d be gone for the best part of a whole day. What sweet relief it was when they’d said yes to my request.

  Although the hills we were going to do weren’t especially high by comparison with nearby Cairngorm, they could still hold on to a good covering of snow even well into May. And since I’d only been here a week earlier, I fully expected to find the peaks still under their wintry blanket. I suggested repeatedly that Sam change his clothing, but he insisted jeans would be fine.

  ‘Sam,’ I said, ‘I don’t know much about hillwalking, but I do know that jeans are a terrible choice in wet weather.’

  ‘How’s that then?’ he asked.

  ‘They hold water.’

  ‘Yeah, but snow’s different, it’s drier than rain.’

  We hadn’t even reached the top of the first hill before Sam’s clothes were saturated. Not only had he become sodden by trudging through almost knee-deep crunchy snow, but he also fell into a muddy and watery hole. At work two nights earlier he had accidentally chopped off the end of his index finger in the safe door when it had swung shut. Preserving the tip of his finger in ice, he took it to hospital to have it stitched back on. And so the vision of his white, massively bandaged finger pointing skywards in Saturday Night Fever fashion was hilarious as he struggled to free himself. Weak with laughter, I helped extract him from the muddy breach but, man, was he annoyed.

  Leaving Sam and his bad mood trailing behind, I arrived at the first peak on the ridge and perched myself on a rock. Surprised to discover that Sam and I weren’t the only ones who had thought to come this way, I introduced myself to two men who were sitting against the summit cairn.

  ‘I was here last week,’ I said. ‘I climbed up Meall a’ Bhuachaille in a whiteout and got totally disorientated. I’m glad the weather’s better today!’

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to know Dawn Main by any chance?’ asked the older of the two men.

  ‘Yes! I would!’ I said. ‘I know her from school. How do you know her?’

  ‘She’s a colleague of ours. So you’ll be the mad pal she was telling us about who got lost in the snow,’ teased the other guy, Ollie, whose baggy trousers and black jacket disguised a tall, heavy-set frame.

  We were laughing and marvelling at the coincidence when Sam reached us; I could tell by his face that all he wanted to do was turn round and go back to the car, so I quickly introduced him to the two men and explained the connection. Sam appeared more at ease on the hill with the distraction of male company and so the four of us ended up carrying along the ridge together, but before a final climb up to the top of Meall a’ Bhuachaille Sam called it a day.

  ‘Sarah! If you need a hill buddy, get Dawn to let me know. I’d be happy to join you,’ Ollie called back. I smiled and waved as we travelled in our different directions. Neither of us could know it then but, after that chance encounter, Ollie’s part in my hillwalking career would turn out to be significant.

  Sam and I navigated our way back down, along tracks and fire breaks through Queen’s Forest to the road and then finally back to our parked car, much to Sam’s relief.

  ‘Did you enjoy our day?’ I asked him, as we drank a post-hill dram at home.

  ‘Hmm. I couldn’t be arsed doing that every weekend. Too boring just walking up a hill and then back down again,’ he answered.

  Ten minutes later he was flaked out on the sofa. I looked at his peaceful face and was disappointed that he hadn’t felt the same sense of wonderment and freedom that I felt on the mountains. But my plan had partly worked, because at least he wasn’t getting drunk – there would be no shit tonight.

  To get ideas for walks I bought a popular book on Scotland’s highest mountains. Inside its covers were route descriptions, grid references for start points and estimated times for how long each walk should take. A world of possibilities for new adventures – for escaping my troubles – literally opened up for me with the turn of each page. There were coloured drawings showing relief, rivers, summits, and a broken red line with little arrowheads even indicated direction of travel. Perfect for a birdbrain like me. As I’d flipped through the book I came across what I decided would be the next walk, Bynack More in the Cairngorm range. The route looked easy enough, and its start point at Glenmore Lodge and the first section up this mountain were now familiar to me.

  It was the week after our first outing together and a scorcher of a day. The sky was a brilliant blue wi
th just a few scattered white clouds. The journey across Dava Moor towards the Cairngorms was quiet; Sam had taken some convincing to come out again so soon.

  He was silent as we set out walking, no doubt brooding about having to spend a whole day in the outdoors, but I still hoped there was a chance he’d fall in love with the mountains. ‘Come and see Lochain Uaine,’ I enthused. ‘It’s like an amazing little secret tucked away from the masses, so perfectly unspoilt.’ Eventually he agreed, but he seemed to be regretting it already.

  We took a brief detour from our path to Ryvoan bothy, at the head of the pass. Once an important drovers’ road, it linked other tracks stretching off to the north, or heading east to the coast. Its interior was dingy, with only a dull light cast through the small, cobwebbed window, but its sturdy stone walls conveyed a sense of history. I imagined times when shepherds would have taken grateful shelter here. However, in the mild weather it smelt like wet dog.

  Sam was unimpressed. I was going to have my work cut out trying to entertain him. I wished I hadn’t been so insistent that he join me. I felt resentful that the effort involved in trying to please him was going to spoil my own sense of enjoyment. This wasn’t how it was meant to be.

  Returning to a junction in the track, we branched off in an easterly direction. Before crossing a wooden bridge over the River Nethy we came to a long section of trail comprising loose stones, varying in size and stability. Sam complained that the rough terrain was causing pain to flare up in his knee, but he soldiered on.

  It seemed a long walk in the heat as we followed the footpath south-east over the lower shoulder of Bynack More. I decided to distract Sam by walking ahead with my butt exposed. It had the desired effect. He roared with laughter at the sight of my wobbling white posterior which, with a rapid yank of my trousers, was quickly concealed just before the first people we encountered saw more than they had bargained for. The old boy looked like an ageing Crocodile Dundee in his Australian cork hat, beating the trail ahead of his wife.