Just Another Mountain Read online

  In the same way I had once used the bottle and blow to bury all the hurt, I now found salvation in the freedom of wide, open spaces. Among mountains I enjoyed a natural high. And I wondered, momentarily, if it was a similar pain that my father had tried to blot out when he chose to drink himself to death. He chose drink and drugs. I had chosen to live, to find a more positive outlet for my turmoil, and to be there for my sons.

  As Marcus and I climbed out from the dark confines of the corrie on Beinn Alligin and topped out onto a fairly flat plateau, we were rewarded with sudden and extensive views over sparkling waters to Skye, Harris and the low-lying profile of Lewis. We were standing high on the north-western edge of Scotland, with nothing between us and the islands of Skye and the Outer Hebrides, dark, angular outlines across the Minch. Behind and now way below us, Loch Torridon glinted in still, blue perfection. Rising steeply above its southern shore stood Beinn Damh, smaller than its neighbours but stark and prominent with endless peaks sweeping gracefully away behind it. We couldn’t help but keep stopping to admire the grandeur – while also enjoying some respite from the hot work. With a film of sweat across our foreheads we climbed higher still to reach the first summit, where we had a well-earned rest. We weren’t even bothered by the flies that buzzed around us as we ate some lunch. Liathach dominated our view to the east, that intimidating yet fascinating terraced sandstone monster. And behind us, almost five kilometres in length, was the rest of our ridgewalk. After our break, still feeling the heat, I whipped off my sweat-soaked vest before moving on.

  We could admire our surroundings properly now, like a work of art, the sandstone ridge gently curving in a serpentine line all the way towards the second summit, Sgurr Mor, and beyond it the Horns. We carefully descended the steep, narrow ridge and the rock felt warm against the palms of our hands as we lowered ourselves over awkward drops that presented a stretch too long for our legs. Being with Marcus, and given the combination of good weather, incredible scenery and the challenge of the terrain, I felt consumed by an enormous sense of joy, and it seemed no time before we’d reached the col between the two Munro tops – only to have to begin another steep climb upwards. After ascending a smaller top, to our right a fantastically dramatic gash – the Eag Dubh gully – split the ridge. We paused momentarily to peer down and marvel at all the fallen rocks and rubble that had been weathered away and were now lying strewn on the corrie floor. I turned my face from the dark, shadowy confines of the gully and continued the trail, so brightly illumined in sunshine, to the height of Sgurr Mor. It felt good to be up here, to be part of nature’s glorious mountain canvas. We’d done it together, me and my boy, and we couldn’t stop grinning foolishly at each other, flushed with pleasure at our achievement.

  From our second summit Liathach appeared even more imposing. My eyes remained transfixed on this isolated bastion with its precipitous walls. I knew one day I’d have to climb it, to satiate my curiosity. Beyond it were even more jagged tops. Land dressed in purple and deep-blue hues swept away into the distance to merge with the heated haze of the day and vastness of the sky, and I surrendered myself to the magic of the silence and beauty. Turning through 180 degrees, I gazed upon the Dundonnell and Fisherfield Hills, yawning off to the north. We sat quietly together, Marcus and I, tired but satisfied by the physical challenge.

  We would have been content to stay there on the mountain’s peak, but we still had to tackle the three pinnacles, so off we sauntered towards the Horns, with Beinn Dearg and Beinn Eighe as their backdrop. Scrambling over the airy sandstone towers held an attraction of its own. It was basically easy rock climbing and added an element of real fun to the day. Finding foot and hand holds with natural ease, Marcus scrambled up and down the rocky architecture of the Horns, loving every second of it. The warm wind blew more gustily, but, unfazed, he continued his route-finding with the utmost confidence, and his beaming smile as we arrived on the final pillar said more than the spoken word – almost.

  ‘Can I call Dad?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, course you can,’ I nodded, handing him my mobile.

  ‘Dad was up here a few weeks ago, but he told me didn’t manage the Horns because his legs were too tired for it. I can’t wait to tell him I’ve done them,’ he said gleefully.

  ‘Dad! Guess where I am?’ sang Marcus. ‘I’m on the last Horn on Beinn Alligin.’

  ‘Well done, Son,’ I heard his father say, ‘I’m going to have to attempt it again then.’

  I’d met Marcus’s dad in late autumn 1996, a couple of months after Mum’s diagnosis. My moods had been low and so, in need of distraction, I had taken on extra evening shifts at the pub – and going by my track record it was far better that I was working and not drinking. It was there that I met the man who would father my first child. He looked like a young Charlie Sheen: his short, dark hair spiked at the front, almond-shaped green eyes and a perfectly proportioned, straight nose. He was interesting and as we chatted more I discovered he lived down the lane opposite Mum’s flat, in a house tucked in behind high walls and trees next to the river. A whirlwind romance between us started out well and developed into a Christmas proposal of marriage at the summit of a local hill. But as months passed and my mum became sicker – more quickly than any of us thought possible – that whirlwind relationship creaked under the strain.

  ‘Why is it that people always let you down and relationships end up pear-shaped? How am I going to live without you? It’s always you I come to for advice. What is the point in anything!’ I blurted as I approached my startled mother, who had been reading a book quietly by the fire.

  ‘Oh Sarah, you must promise me that you won’t give up,’ Mum said as she stood up and held me to her.

  ‘You’re the only person I know I can trust,’ I whined, as she stroked my hair and kept me in her arms. Just then my boyfriend walked into the room.

  ‘You look after this girl,’ Mum said to him. ‘She’s been starved of affection all her life.’ We gently unlocked our embrace. My boyfriend looked suitably embarrassed, but I wasn’t worried about him. All I could think about was how terrified I was to lose my mother from my life.

  Coming off the final ridge felt rough on my knees, but I watched with pride as Marcus skipped and bounced his way downwards. Stopping in his flight, he turned to look at me, his face all tanned. ‘Mum, I really enjoyed myself today,’ he said. I beamed back, and with that he bounded off again. Marcus and I had always been close, and it was wonderful to be able to share these experiences with him.

  Left alone with my thoughts for a moment, my mind wandered back to a conversation I’d had with a random stranger I’d walked this same bit of trail with weeks earlier.

  ‘I want to climb Kilimanjaro. It’s the highest free-standing mountain in Africa. It borders Tanzania and Kenya . . .’ When he had said that I’d immediately thought of Mum. She had lived in Kenya as a kid. An idea started to take form.

  As Marcus and I neared the bridge and the path that would return us to the car, I was convincing myself more and more that it should be me making the trip to Africa. If I felt released from the burden of my grief on the heathers and hills at home, maybe Kilimanjaro would expunge it for ever. I could climb that mountain as a personal tribute to Mum – and raise some money for charity too. It made sense.

  ‘Hey, Mum,’ Marcus called, breaking my train of thought. ‘I found a stone and it’s got a smiling face!’ He pressed it into my hand; sure enough, iron oxide within the rock had created the illusion of two eyes and smile. Perceiving it as a good omen, I took it home as a reminder of our day. I was now a woman with a plan.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Divergent Paths

  Meall Fuar-mhonaidh — The Cold Rounded Hill, February 2010

  My guidelines for life had always been the memories of conversations I’d had with Mum. ‘Just keep busy!’ she had advised, and for the most part I had made sure I was occupied enough, always setting myself new goals. In 2008 I’d translated thought into action and signed u
p to join the Marie Curie Fundraising Team on their June 2010 Kilimanjaro trek. That gave me two years, the first to complete teaching probation and the second to fundraise.

  Asking people for sponsorship was something I’d never been comfortable with, so I figured the best way to get people to part with money would be to run raffles at two dances I’d planned. I’d put all my energy into the project: sweet-talking local businesses for prizes in exchange for publicity on fliers, tickets and any newspaper articles that were published. People I didn’t even know were kind and wanted to help. I’d been sponsored for all my trek clothing by an outdoors shop, all the tickets were printed by a proper printing press, gratis, and the upmarket hotel that gave me use of their dance hall also offered a weekend break as a raffle prize. And there were all sorts of other fabulous donations too: a helicopter flight, a large cash prize, various vouchers, a spa weekend – the list went on, and the generosity amazed me.

  All that organisation had been difficult, but the real hard yards were selling the dance and raffle tickets – literally – as I knocked on almost every door in town, sometimes taking my children when I had nobody to look after them. But it was worthwhile because the townsfolk were big-hearted and we raised thousands of pounds for the charity.

  With my hectic fundraising efforts over, I could turn my attention back to the main trouble in my life: my turbulent marriage. At the start of 2010, I finally made the decision it was over.

  The final straw had been when Sam and I had taken the boys to Bulgaria for a skiing holiday over New Year. I’d wanted something we could all do together as a family, and I had hoped that skiing every day and sharing the same room with the boys would be just what we needed. It wasn’t to be. Sam came up with a range of reasons as to why he couldn’t ski: he’d left his jacket at home, his knees were hurting, he had a bad headache. Then came New Year. We enjoyed dinner and entertainment at our hotel then walked down to the main square in Bansko for midnight, where we set off sky lanterns. After a firework display we returned to the hotel. I took the boys to our mezzanine-style room, but Sam decided the night wasn’t over and went back out. From experience, I knew this wasn’t going to end well.

  At seven-twenty on New Year’s morning the sound of metal skittering off the edge of the hotel door lock alerted me to Sam’s arrival. It took him ages to get the key into its hole and then several attempts to turn it the right way to open the door. In any other circumstances it would have been funny. He staggered in. Finally I heard him slump down onto one of the beds and the clickety-clack as the plastic ends of his laces bounced off the leather kilt shoes. Their untying was a battle more than he was capable of, and he cursed incomprehensibly in his Glaswegian accent before giving up and crashing out fully clothed. Snores to shake a continent were my cue to get up and leave. I woke the boys, we dressed quickly and quietly before creeping silently out of the room.

  Walking along the empty streets of Bansko on that brisk and cold first day of 2010 was when I finally accepted that I was going to have to be brave and change my situation. This time, instead of making excuses to myself as to why we ought to stay together, I silently ran through the reasons to justify why we should part. Grandad would have been disappointed that I was unable to stick it out ‘for better or for worse’, but I wasn’t born in his generation. And anyway, he isn’t here any more; and, no, it isn’t my ideal to be a single parent, but better that than stuck in a troubled marriage. Still I felt a crushing sense of guilt and failure, but up ahead, fixed firmly in sight, my two boys bobbed along the dusty Bansko pavements. They didn’t know what went on between Sam and me, but they were growing up fast and it wouldn’t be long before they saw and heard more than they should. My kids deserved better, all of us did. And so I resolved that the marriage was over.

  Ending a relationship is never easy, even when you know it’s the right thing to do. But when the emotional strain got too much, I found time to retreat to the hills. I started to realise, though, that on occasion my lack of experience bordered on the reckless. There was nothing else for it: if I was going to continue to go out on my own, I needed to take the basic course in navigation skills I’d been meaning to do for so long.

  The class I attended was held once a week for six weeks at Drumnadrochit, a short drive from Inverness along the A82 towards Fort William, where a bunch of us stumbled around a field with black binbags over our heads – we must’ve looked crazy. We had to take a bearing on a given landmark, set our compass, then walk on the bearing to reach it. I learnt to work out how many paces I take to cover 100 metres, which for me, by the way, is 66 on average ground, meaning I can travel a distance of about five kilometres an hour. But, more importantly, I learnt enough to be able to go out hillwalking on my own without having to wait for brilliant blue-sky days or to rely on others to do the navigation – because, truthfully, up until now I’d been mostly winging it.

  Drumnadrochit also happened to be an access point for Meall Fuar-mhonaidh, the hill that had been a part of the familiar landscape of my childhood. I’d been able to see it from the beach at the end of our garden and from the top of Cromal Mount out front of our house. Of all the mountains in the surrounding landscape it was this one that was most distinctive, shaped like a great big Christmas pudding, missing only a sprig of holly on its top. It was a place where Mum’s fiancé Gerry had liked to take her on days out – not up the hill itself, but along Loch Ness – and the area had remained a favourite. Though I was only little, I remember Gerry would borrow my grandad’s orange car to drive Mum and me there, and it was one of these days – just as we motored through Inverness, passing the big whisky distillery on the left with its blackened stone walls and, on the right, huge dirty gas tanks beyond the railway tracks – that Gerry gave me a present. My mum passed it back to me: A Treasury of Nursery Rhymes, illustrated by Hilda Boswell. I loved it – it remained one of my most treasured childhood possessions – and I loved him.

  So although I knew Meall Fuar-mhonaidh well, and it meant a great deal to me, I’d never actually walked up it. It was a Monday morning of the last week in February 2010 when I finally went to the top. That day, when I looked out of our window, the sky was such a brilliant blue it was as though it had somehow detached itself from above Cyprus or some other Mediterranean land. I checked the local forecast: it was going to remain a settled day in the north-east.

  I’d had a thoroughly hideous weekend off the back of an equally rotten week and getting out onto the hillside sounded like exactly what I needed.

  ‘Who’d like to go up the Christmas pudding hill?’ I called, rousing the boys from their sleep.

  ‘MEEE!’ They cried in unison from behind closed doors, and I laughed.

  ‘Come on then. Let’s get ready and we’ll go.’

  I was glad they wanted to come because it would give us a chance to talk through everything that had been happening. I had to make sure they were okay about Sam not living with us any more.

  In their cosy salopettes the boys struck out with me along the footpath next to a small stream. Silver birches overcrowded each bank, their dark branches interlocking above the gurgling flow, and fallen limbs forming natural bridges. The air was crisp and clear, with just a hint of the scent of leaf mould where its russet patches remained exposed next to the water. Soft snow creaked underfoot, and moisture that had dripped from grasses overhanging the stream had frozen into icy chandeliers. Leon was a bright-red streak against the white, as he made straight for the bank to kick snow into the icy river, while Marcus, a mirror of the blue sky above, ambled on ahead.

  On our right lay unbroken wide, open space under a thick white blanket, spreading towards the lower shoulder of Meall Fuar-mhonaidh. At closer quarters the hill had lost its prominent dome shape; instead the changed perspective gave it the appearance of a whale surfacing for air. And what I had assumed might be a reasonably steep climb all the way to the top was actually going to be a fairly gradual ascent. Perhaps I needed to try to look at life from a differe
nt angle too. Yes, I was upset that I’d finally had to call it a day with Sam, and the break-up had somehow renewed my grief for my mother – she was the one I wanted to be able to turn to through all of this – but my health was good, my children fantastic and we had a roof over our heads. And I was grateful for these things, sometimes I just felt too overwhelmed by everything to remember all that we had going for us.

  The stream’s chanting grew softer as the path curved away and crossed a track through two gates. We walked through woodland of birch and hazel, feeling through the soles of our boots the network of roots bulging like varicose veins under old, papery skin. As we climbed more steeply the trees began to thin out, until all at once we were completely surrounded by wintry moorland. We came upon a stile over deer fencing so big that it was like a climbing frame, and the boys took great pleasure in scaling its grand height to stand on the wooden platform like kings of the castle. They threw snowballs, and one just missed me; on hitting the ground it fractured into tiny pieces that scattered along the ice-encrusted surface.

  There wasn’t a whisper of wind when I crouched down and picked up a handful of icy crystals. Pouring them slowly through my fingers, I watched and listened as their glittery brilliance chinked and tinkled back onto the sugary terrain. It was mesmerising. On the mountains my senses were honed; light made everything appear brighter and sounds much richer. My mother would have loved this, I knew. I wished we’d come up here together, revisiting one of the places we both associated so much with Gerry. As usual, thinking of her brought an ache to my heart. I pulled my mobile phone from my pocket and wrote her a text – it didn’t matter that she could never receive it. I pretended that she would.