Shadow in the Tin
Foreword - Gargoyles in Gabbro
Welcome to my latest blog, following hot on the heels - or perhaps I should say cold on the coat-tails - of Camera on the Crags and The Ballad of Bellever Tor. A trilogy in number, if not always thematically.
In this particular blog, I’d like to ponder a variety of… well, imponderables. Tried and trusted favourites, from the sublime to the ridiculous. Such as:
Why climb a mountain?
How do we survive lockdown and come out the other side?
What is the meaning of life, the universe and everything?
Which mystical gurus are name-checked in My Sweet Lord?
When is it cool to wear a head-torch?
Would your imaginary friend like a biscuit?
OK, so I don’t actually answer most of these thorny questions… and come to think of it, this isn’t really a blog. Not a proper one. A blog would involve shaping these conundrums into some sort of sense, perhaps even imparting a couple of meaningful conclusions. Something grounded in reality, yet vaguely profound. The truth is, I don’t know how to do this. Reality is complicated… much too complicated for me to articulate here. So I’ve reached a compromise and instead crammed my ponderings into a short story.
Or perhaps I should call it a tall tale, since my story takes place up a mountain. Call it what you will after reading it! But don’t worry if mountains aren’t your thing, as the climbing is really just a metaphor for whatever floats your boat. Which is itself a metaphor for… well, I’m sure you get the gist!
If anyone wishes to jump straight into the short story, this foreword can be skipped by clicking here… but otherwise, I’ll present a few words and pictures by way of introduction.
In keeping with this slippery metaphor business, the story doesn’t actually name its featured mountain. Yes, there are hints and suggestions, murmurings of a Scottish island… but the peak’s true identity remains a mystery. And this is deliberate, because I wanted the narrative to be viewed as a parable, in which the landscape has a certain fairy tale quality. Why weigh it down with real-world clutter, or something as arbitrary as a scribble on a map? I wanted the setting to remain open to interpretation, in much the same way that the story’s troubled protagonist (and narrator) is not pinned down by a specific name or identity.
Mystery Mountain… it’s up there somewhere, shrouded in mist-ery!
But whereas the story and its protagonist are purely fictional, my fairy tale mountain really does exist. And what a mountain it is! This is where the act of writing the story was itself therapeutic, for I was secretly escaping lockdown to one of my favourite haunts whenever I fired up my laptop and began to type.
Below is the alpine spoiler, so please skip forward (or skip the foreword) if you’d rather not know; as a reminder, the story is available here…
SPOILER ALERT: The peak’s name is Sgurr nan Gillean, and it graces the northern end of Britain’s most dramatic mountain range: the Black Cuillin of Skye.
Isle of Skye (July 2007): The classic view from Sligachan, the usual starting point for an ascent of Sgurr nan Gillean. From here, the Northern Cuillin exudes a presence - a sense of immensity - which cannot readily be captured on camera. Indeed, this vista is so iconic that the foreground telegraph poles were removed by popular demand two years later!
From Sligachan again… angling the camera ever so slightly from the Northern Cuillin reveals the shapely cone of Marsco (where Red Cuillin meets Black!).
Looking up at the final section of Sgurr nan Gillean’s ‘Tourist Route’, or South-East Ridge. The West Ridge marks the left-hand skyline, Pinnacle Ridge the right.
Back in the summer of 1995, I was lucky enough to scale Sgurr nan Gillean with my Dad. It was a baptism of fire; a heady mix of fear and exhilaration. We were alpine novices, at least by Cuillin standards, and this was our first taste of those bristly defences. Our ascent directly inspired the story’s climbing passages. OK, so I don’t recall seeing gargoyles in the rough gabbro rock, but much of the rest is lifted straight from memory. Dramatic license aside, we really did get lost in the hill-fog and attempted to battle an impossible gully. And the feeling of trepidation on that final summit spire is definitely genuine, even if our chosen line is disparagingly known as the Tourist Route!
The Northern and Central Cuillin from Western Skye - Sgurr nan Gillean is the high, pointy one on the left!
A ‘Gorgeous’ spot for lunch… my father Nigel alongside the Basteir Gorge
For us, the actual ascent - and of course safe descent - was the story. For the tale’s protagonist, it’s more about the strange encounter at the summit. This is where the day’s literal ups and downs culminate in a moment of catharsis. But I won’t spoil it further, except to say that mountain tops are magical places!
Hidden Heart of the Cuillin… on the ‘boiler plate’ gabbro slabs of Coruisk
Loch Coruisk and the Cuillin
Wee peak with a big view… from shore to summit on Sgurr na Stri.
An area so remote that access entails a boat trip ‘Over the Sea to Skye’ from Elgol to Loch Coruisk - then hopefully back again, if we descend in time for the return voyage!
A combined sea/mountain adventure in the best traditions of explorer Bill Tilman.
I can’t speak for the story’s protagonist (not until the sequel!), but in real life our ascent of Sgurr nan Gillean opened the floodgates for many other tales of high jinks in the Black Cuillin. OK, perhaps floodgates is overstating it… given the challenges of scrambling in the Cuillin, the summits flowed by in more of a nervous trickle than a gushing torrent. Still, the ensuing years held plenty of airy (if not watery) adventures. I won’t expand too much here, except to say that Skye would subject us to soakings and sunburn; storms and swollen rivers; we’d get wedged in gullies and washed down waterslides; and my Dad would get bitten by a wild pig!
Beware that waterslide!
Rising waters beneath Bla Bheinn (the wild pig lurks unseen!)
Rewind to my first ever visit to the Misty Isle (family day-trip, July 1988).
This ‘retro’ teenage pose is on the seashore at Elgol…
Sgurr na Stri, beyond, would be climbed from here almost 20 years later.
Fast forward to our parting pilgrimage (July 2007)… my Dad polishes off the sarnies on Garbh Bheinn. This completed our set of Skye Corbetts and Munros, with one notable exception…
A Nod to our Nemesis…
The Black Cuillin of Skye is home to a dozen Munros (Scottish 3,000-footers), all but one of them (brooding Bla Bheinn) strung out along a single treacherous ridge. Like rough black pearls on a choke-chain, as my story’s narrator might have put it (doubtless blaming the phrase on the guidebook!). And while Sgurr nan Gillean is arguably the most alluring of these mighty Cuillin summits, it is not quite the highest… nor the most difficult to attain. The highest is Sgurr Alasdair, which dominates the Southern Cuillin Skye-line together with its partner-in-climb, the aptly-named Inaccessible Pinnacle of Sgurr Dearg.
Better known simply as the In Pinn, this sheer-sided plinth forms the hardest major summit in the British Isles, calling for rock-steady nerves and bona fide rock-climbing skills. We twice visited the base of its giant basalt fin, without being bold or foolhardy enough to attempt the top. Still, when we hung up our Skye-boots in 2007, we were more than happy to have raised our Cuillin Munro tally to 11 (like a cagoule-clad Spinal Tap). The In Pinn itself is our elusive bete noire, the stuff of both dreams and nightmares. I suspect it will forever remain so. Though if we ever need to evade that wild pig again, who knows where we’ll end up? :-0
The Black Cuillin’s notorious ‘In Pinn’ - nemesis of Munro-baggers everywhere!
Long in the Tooth - My Final Skye Munro (excluding the In Pinn!)
For me personally, the rocky blade of Am Basteir - ominously known as ‘The Executioner’ - proved to be a more realistic nemesis than the In Pinn. A prominent landmark of the Northern Cuillin, this is Sgurr nan Gillean’s knobbly wee neighbour (although not so wee up close!).
The picture shown here was taken in July 1996, when we scurried by en route to the higher but friendlier Bruach na Frithe. A lone climber silhouetted on Am Basteir’s exposed summit gives a sense of scale, with the overhanging fang of the Basteir Tooth to the right of the main block. I was to finally reach that climber’s airy perch 11 years later (July 2007), scrabbling along the edge in thick Scotch mist. In terms of Skye Munros, it bookended the odyssey which began with Sgurr nan Gillean back in 1995.
Oh, and one more thing (I can’t reveal how I learnt this!): if you’re texting your partner after a hard day’s hill-walk to say, “All’s well; not taking any risks”, don’t sign off by innocently adding, “Climbed Am Basteir”. They just might call your bluff and google it! :-0
A Quick Aside - Good Hues and Bad Puns
In case aspects of my short story seem unnecessarily flippant, I should briefly illustrate the state of mind which nervous tension can induce on these high-octane hill-walking trips(!)…
After we’d successfully descended Sgurr nan Gillean back in August 1995, my Dad was keen to catch up on the England-West Indies Test cricket score.
He discovered that England’s new opening batsman, Jason Gallian, had been dismissed without scoring.
We realised that, while we were up Sgurr nan Gillean, England’s hapless opener had become Score-none-Gallian!
Marsco… shapely summit, evocative Norse name!
As bad puns go, this would be rivalled on a subsequent visit to Skye, when we arrived on the island to find stunning evening light behind the flat-topped hill of Dun Caan, the highest point of neighbouring Raasay.
Naturally, the scene was described as a Dun Caan Good Hue!
(Some readers may need to google the British Olympic swimmer, Duncan Goodhew… though my wife Karen always says that if you have to explain a joke, it ain’t funny!) :-0
A Focus on Photography
The images which illustrate this blog are best described as family holiday snaps, or shots taken on the move during challenging hill-walks. While we eventually ‘went digital’ from 2007 (ironically, the year of our final Skye walking trip), most of these artefacts record our days exploring the Cuillin armed with just enthusiasm and basic point-and-shoot film cameras.
The resulting prints found their way into family albums which languished in my parents’ closet for two decades or more, only seeing the light of day during occasional trips down memory lane. (That’s a literal closet, by the way, not a dubious metaphorical one!)
After being tracked down for this blog, a selection of these fading film images were then hastily digitised… which simply means I photographed the photographs using my old Fuji bridge camera, before performing some rudimentary post-processing using Picasa.
So what am I trying to skirt around with these caveats? Basically, the pictures presented here should be viewed with a spirit of adventure rather than an expectation of technical excellence. Adventure has merit though, so I say this by way of explanation rather than apology! ;-0
An early selfie (August 1997): atop the Central Cuillin Munro of Sgurr a’ Mhadaidh, en route to the higher summit of Sgurr a’ Ghreadaidh (top right). At background left is Sgurr Alasdair, climbed in mist the previous day.
Thanks go to my father Nigel for sharing in these alpine endeavours and for taking a number of the pictures… not only the ones I’m in, but probably a few others along the way. (Unlike our Munro tally, I doubt he’s keeping count!)
Approaching Sgurr a’ Ghreadaidh
Central Cuillin Capers!
But what of our wide-eyed ascent of Sgurr nan Gillean itself, the excursion which started it all back in August of 1995? Well, shots from this climb have naturally been chosen to accompany the short story (which follows this foreword… nearly there now!). In terms of the backdrop, they directly illustrate the (mis)adventures of the story’s protagonist, and the wonderfully spiky scenery in which events unfold. As the narrator bumbles toward the summit, the illustrations give a pretty accurate portrayal of the actual ascent. But as the tale continues and becomes more dialogue-based, I’ve had to be a little more creative… thus, images from the latter part of the story sometimes jump into the narrator’s mindset or explore the wider locale, raiding other Skye-scraping adventures of similar vintage.
I even make a fleeting dash north to the eerily atmospheric Trotternish ridge - the ethereal Old Man of Storr and Quiraing - intended, perhaps tenuously, as a telescopic peek into the narrator’s field of view. These hopefully all add a certain colour and context to the narrative… and if they come across as a little dog-eared or sepia-tinged, let’s just call it part of the nostalgic charm! To paraphrase the old joke, maybe we’ll find out whether nostalgia is what it used to be after all? Either way, I like to think that these frames will somehow fit the tone of the story, whose protagonist has broader concerns than pictorial perfection.
Brief History of a Short Story
If my illustrations are historical artefacts, then so (in a way) is the short story itself. I first drafted this back in the year 2000, in the midst of a transient writing phase. It was a knowingly minimalist piece - which I liked - although I felt that something about it didn’t quite hang together. After briefly re-working the text in 2002, my softcopies disappeared into the ether… but the story survived thanks to a last-gasp print-out, which had been filed away to gather dust. Two things prompted me to resurrect it 20 years later. Firstly, I felt that my website was doing scant justice to the Cuillin of Skye, which should really be front and centre of any self-respecting UK mountain portfolio. Here was an opportunity to sneakily redress the balance - to retrospectively celebrate Skye’s surreal landscapes, with nostalgia compensating for a lack of recent visits. It’s what I’ve previously called Embracing the Golden Age…
Will it go? My Dad seeks a feasible line up - then down - Sgurr Dubh Mor, a hidden gem of the Southern Cuillin (July 1996)
And secondly - perhaps more importantly - I wanted to acknowledge the difficulties which many people have faced during the Covid pandemic. The concept of lockdown presented the tale’s protagonist with a previously-lacking back story, subject to what I believed would be a minor re-write. In the event, for better or worse, my re-write sprouted wings and became a total makeover. The end result - my revamped Shadow in the Tin (2022 Illustrated Lockdown Mix) - is presented below. Along with some further pictures of course, each of which conveys a mini-story of its own…
Never mind the Cuillin Ridge - those Cuillin corries can be just as daunting. We still don’t talk about Coire na Banachdich…
…the following year, an alternative route was sought…
…which finally led us to Sgurr na Banachdich! (1997-98)
As a final introductory word, I should acknowledge the part which serendipity plays in my story (especially this revised version). And this powerful concept - an indefinable sense of fate or destiny - isn’t purely a fictional device. The passage in which a character meets their next-door neighbour up a mountain is inspired by a real-life encounter - it happened to a former boss of mine atop Tryfan, Snowdonia. Meanwhile, just as I was fine-tuning the sections on Shackleton, his long-lost ship - HMS Endurance - was found 10,000 feet beneath the Antarctic sea-ice. She was discovered on the 100th anniversary of Shackleton’s funeral, as though awakening from a century of mournful slumber.
Dubhs Ridge from Coruisk (nice poncho!)
Ascending Sgurr Dearg’s West Ridge…
… and higher still (Sgurr Dearg West Ridge)
Final target: Garbh Bheinn
A Rocky Road ahead: the daunting prow of Sgurr Mhic Choinnich
‘Crag in the Clag’ - my Dad high on Bla Bheinn. The hairiest part of our day until that wild pig appeared! ;-)
On the Coire Lagan Skye-line -
between Sgurr Dearg / An Stac (beyond)
and Sgurr Mhic Choinnich (behind camera).
My Dad seems to be wearing that background patch of snow?
Approaching Coire a’ Ghrunnda -
rocky gateway to the Southern Cuillin!
Sgurr Alasdair across Coire Lagan
Sgurr Alasdair’s Great Stone Chute
Loch Coire a’ Ghrunnda
‘Poaching a Scramble’ on Sgurr nan Eag
Above: the Cuillin of Skye… a mini-gallery of untold stories. Sgurr nan Gillean’s story has been told (below), fictionalized but with genuine sentiment and intent!
It is, of course, purely a bonus if this wee yarn resonates with anyone in the big wide world. Its narrator enjoys a droll turn of phrase, so would no doubt manage expectations in a colourful manner. Something along the lines of, this webpage may be the least viewed site since the Invisible Man opened a Camouflage Museum. But if so, that’s OK… in keeping with the story’s underlying message, my purpose was simply to write it.
And in case anyone does make it through to the end… May Janie watch over you! :-)
Finding Tranquility - MacLeod’s Tables, Western Skye (post-Cuillin day-trip, July 2014)
Shadow in the Tin
A Short Story
The thing that annoys me about old Mrs. McCormack is that she’s always so damned cheerful. “It’ll be grand,” she’d told me, forcing a smile. “A bit of air will do you good. Blow the cobwebs away.” The other thing about Mrs. McCormack is that her cheerfulness is conducted almost entirely in clichés.
Mind you, she did hesitate when I told her which mountain I’d be attempting. “For your first outing?” she’d asked. “Are you sure that’s wise?” No, I replied, of course it isn’t wise. I’ve been wise all my life and look where it’s got me. “Well,” she’d persisted, “last summer a young man staying at Mrs. Mackay’s set off for that very peak and they brought him down in a body bag. And the year before, a nice young couple fell off the ridge. They came down in body bags too.” Whenever she spoke of death, she spoke of body bags. I had visions of a body bag factory just around the corner, secretly raking in the profits.
As if to prove her point, Mrs. McCormack disappeared into the lounge and emerged with a guidebook. It was one of those dog-eared scraps from the tiny library that she maintained for her guests. She found the page on my chosen mountain and read out loud that the final part of the ascent tapered like a Gothic cathedral. I told her I couldn’t quite picture how a Gothic cathedral tapered, and queried whether it involved a more dangerous degree of tapering than a normal cathedral. “Don’t be flippant,” she’d replied. “That’s the kind of attitude that costs lives.” To Mrs. McCormack, I’m pretty sure the riskiest part was being frivolous about cathedrals. Houses of Our Lord, she called them.
In the end we’d reached a compromise: she’d trust me to climb the mountain if I allowed her to supervise my safety precautions. The latter comprised a packed lunch and a box of plasters, which she placed in my rucksack on top of a tattered map. The packed lunch appeared sparse, and slightly too healthy, so I threw in a packet of cookies when Mrs. M wasn’t looking. When I asked if I could borrow a compass she’d rummaged around in her son’s desk, eventually producing a pair of compasses of the type used to draw circles. I didn’t like to say anything, so I dutifully stashed them away in a side pocket.
Looking back, I’m not sure whether my silent acceptance of compass-gate was a good deed or a petty protest. Either way it certainly back-fired, for a few hours later I was lost in the murk. Spits and spots had fused into rain, which had morphed into hill-fog. Scotch mist, dank and dense as Scotch broth. In other words, I found myself in the cloud rather than just being under one. Such is progress, I suppose. Anyway, I must have missed my turning up the third scree chute on the left, or whatever stupid detail the guidebook had failed to mention while it was wittering on about cathedrals. Sorry, Gothic cathedrals. Now I’d been spun around beneath the crag and didn’t know my east from west. Or my arse from my elbow, come to that.
The only possible means of progress seemed to be a vertical gully leading to a notch. If only I could reach that notch, I’d be.. well, I’d probably be stuck in it, for fearsome rock walls loomed up on all sides. But desperation does funny things to the mind. I was determined to believe that I hadn’t gone wrong after all, that the path was just a little harder than expected and would magically level out if I crested one more rise. I suppose course corrections have never been my forté.
Thankfully, that gully made the decision for me: I was forced to abandon it after the briefest of attempts. Once I’d stopped flailing around, I felt like a dead weight in a drainpipe - less human fly, more dying fly. Hmm… swirling mist, an abyss and no compass. At least, no compass of the magnetic variety. It was scant consolation that I could’ve drawn a nice neat circle on a rock.
It’s funny though; the moment I felt a genuine twinge of fear - proper life-threatening, brown-trouser-type fear - I frantically wanted to pull through. I hadn’t cared this much for as long as I could remember. All through lockdown, in fact. The truth is, I’d barely left my flat for the past couple of years. Nothing to do but watch the news and worry. And worry some more, and drink. Then drink some more, because I was worried. My job prospects evaporated, and my better half Jen (dear sweet Jen, my only truly good half) had walked out on me. This was at the height of the pandemic, when we were only allowed one walk per day, but that was all she had needed to leave. Not that I blame her. And yep, I should probably face up to it and stop joking around.
That’s what Jim, my counsellor, would say if he were here on the island. Not that I need outside help of course (except perhaps from Mountain Rescue). But I did go to the therapy sessions for a while - you know how it is, you can only summon the energy for so much resistance. Getting out and about (as they say) is key, I accept that. Best foot forward, and other platitudes. In all honesty, I just needed to meet people. But I lost confidence, and before you know it even grocery shopping is some sort of psychological trauma. You end up gravitating toward the grumpy check-out assistants because you don’t know how to converse with the chatty ones. Yeah, shame about the weather… no, my partner has wandered off with our loyalty card [which I suddenly realise is both sad and ironic]. Mumble, mumble…
OK, so maybe I did need some help. But Jim lured me into that interactive role-play stuff, which was frankly too much to handle. I’m not a child. I didn’t need to be put in a line, to bump elbows with strangers and constantly hear that dreaded echo of “Pleased to meet you…”, like it’s some kind of mantra. This might sound a little melodramatic, but it always put me in mind of the Stones bashing out ‘Sympathy for the Devil’. “Pleased to meet you / Hope you guessed my name…” Then Jagger struts around a bit… “But what’s puzzling you is just the / Nature of my game…”
Maybe that’s my problem: I don’t know the nature of my game. I definitely don’t think I’m the Devil (like in the song), but neither am I a fan of Mrs. McCormack’s evangelising. And actually, her presence on the scene - or rather, my presence on her scene - was down to Jim as well. After I walked out of the sessions and declared that I’d get away on my own terms, he put me in touch with good old Mrs. M so she could keep a watchful eye on me. Unlikely friends, Jim and Mrs. M, but I think they have some sort of charity malarkey in common. Like they both baked fruitcakes for Children in Need. (Don’t tell them I said that!)
So I’d checked in at Mrs. M’s and now here I was scaling a mountain, doing what I needed to do. Leaving the house at long last and actually going somewhere… but luckily (as if by magic), without the ordeal of meeting people. Therapy by escapism, I suppose you could call it. Wandering the wilderness. Communing with the crags. Basically, finding solace in the great outdoors. The nearest door was literally miles away, thousands of feet below my soggy boots, and I had no prospect of ever locating it through the clag. You can’t get much more outdoorsy than that!
Yet even for a seasoned adventurer like me (that was sarcasm, by the way), there comes a time to admit defeat. And it wasn’t just that the way ahead looked hopeless (if not a real-life death-trap!). A thick drizzle was starting to worm its way in through my outer shell, dampening more than just my spirits. Now that I’d stopped climbing I was shivering with cold. It had no right to be this cold; winter was long gone, and the air had felt quite balmy down at sea level. Only this wasn’t sea level, it was somewhere high in the sky. Somewhere alien.
I smiled as I recalled Mrs. McCormack’s parting words back at the guesthouse: “Now remember, turn back if it all gets a wee bit hairy. Discretion is the better part of Valhalla.” With or without invoking Valhalla, Mrs. M had been right: turn back I must. I descended clumsily through the gloom, skidding off slippery boulders and clattering down scree.
Then, something surprising happened. I won’t say incredible, because fickle weather is par for the course around the bens and glens… they say if you don’t like the current conditions, hang on for a tick and it will change. Still, I could have sworn that this pea-souper was set in for the day. But Mrs. M must have put in a good word with whoever she prays to upstairs, for the mist abruptly lifted and the cloud scudded on through. It was as though a blindfold had been removed.
What greeted me was both beautiful and enlightening. Beautiful because I could see for the first time how high I’d climbed, and how much of the island was laid out beneath me like a gigantic relief map. And enlightening because my earlier navigational error was laid bare. I only needed to descend a bit further to clear the base of the crag, then I could double-back to the right and re-ascend to the shoulder of my mountain. Provided, of course, I could muster the resolve to do so.
I don’t know what it was, but something urged me to push on upwards. It certainly wasn’t Mrs. M’s hallowed discretion, yet an inner voice told me that maybe the better part of Valhalla awaited me on high after all. Somewhere in the heavens, as it were. Strange thoughts: stop. Have a cookie. Remove waterproofs; wring them out. Rinse and repeat. Then turn and climb the scree - this time the correct river of rock - two steps up, one slide down, two steps up, one slide down… slow progress, for sure, yet progress all the same. I was even beginning to warm up and enjoy myself.
And the moment I crested that shoulder… Wow!!! Indescribable. Although I shouldn’t say that, as I’ll try to describe it anyway. I could suddenly see to the south, over the shielding slopes of my mountain to the great chain of peaks which lay beyond. These were jagged rock peaks, bare to the bone… so bare, in fact, that someone of Mrs. McCormack’s sensibilities would doubtless view them as obscenely naked. I felt insignificant on such a stage, captured by the scenery yet also captivated by it. My focus shifted from the void at my feet to the main spine of the mountain range, which curved and convulsed like a seismic stone dragon, according to Mrs. M’s guidebook. The phrase was a tad bombastic for my taste, but it conveyed the grandeur of the scene pretty well.
Beyond the peaks were glimpses of sea, reflecting whims of the sky… a smudge of shadow, a glint of tin. My eye skimmed the horizon before settling closer at hand. For here - though I hardly dared look - lay the final flourish of my ascent route. Not so much a path as a line of least resistance. It led to a serrated skyline, a succession of formidable towers, of which the main summit was the highest and spikiest. In apparent defiance of gravity, the upper slopes did indeed taper like a Gothic cathedral. The odds of a successful ascent seemed to taper along with it.
I could feel my flippancy fading: the guidebook had clearly been referring to the spire of a cathedral, and it was Gothic because it was moody. Meaning bloody terrifying. To me it resembled an alpine caricature drawn by a small child, who would surely be reminded by the teacher that reality isn’t shaped like a fairy tale. Yet here it was, in all its mythic glory.
Of course, the elephant in the room - had there been an elephant, and had there been a room - was whether to continue my ascent. Should I even attempt to scale this… this thing, which seemed to put the steep into steeple?
I decided to park this for now and instead just absorb my surroundings. Perhaps I was attuning my senses or adjusting to the vibe. I’m not usually that Zen, but something about my situation brought to mind an old college mate who had introduced me to the hills. Here’s to you, Sandy, wherever you are! Sandy always said that you shouldn’t climb a mountain for the view; that any sort of vista was just a bonus. You climbed for the experience, for the challenge and adventure, so what did it matter if you missed the view but viewed the mist (as the old adage went). But the flip side is that you’d better make the most of it when a spectacular view does emerge… not to merely see it, but to somehow feel it.
So I tried. And sure enough, hidden details began to emerge. The cooling breeze which brushed my cheek; the tiny alpine plants which colonised rock crevices; the newly-swollen burns which gurgled and hummed as they drained unseen depths beneath my feet.
I also became aware, for the first time, of how alone I was up here. Not lonely, but alone. I hadn’t spoken since my farewell to Mrs. M many hours earlier; hadn’t seen a soul since leaving the hotel which marked the start of my route. I scanned the distant moorland, and saw that the hotel - with its bittersweet blend of bar-food and bonhomie - had been reduced to a tiny white speck, swallowed by the landscape.
This is why I’d come here, of course: to experience solitude and perspective. Or perhaps that wasn’t quite it. Maybe I’d come to re-create those adventure weekends with Sandy; to re-live my college days, when I’d had strength of purpose and promise of youth. And friends. Those days were long gone. I should have kept in touch, but it wasn’t my style.
Come to think of it, I hadn’t been too sociable even back then. Sandy had belonged to the university’s Expedition Society, which I’d steadfastly refused to join. I’m just not a joiner… and anyway, it all seemed so presumptuous. I mean, they’d wander up some humble wee hill with a flask of hot tea and call it an expedition. Who did they think they were? Scott of the Antarctic? Sir Ernest Shackleton? And besides, exploration is hardly an indicator of virtue. I’d read about those early polar expeditions, and they all seemed a bit colonial and upper class (class pronounced to rhyme with farce). Their idea of diversity was to employ a working class white man to do the dishes.
Sorry, I’m starting to rant. But it’s a loaded subject, because I used to argue the point with Sandy back in the day. And yes, I know Sandy’s defence: times had been different back then, we can’t judge according to today’s cultural norms (blah, blah…). So let’s celebrate their achievements; accentuate the positive (as the song goes), eliminate the negative. Or rather, learn from the negative. And I couldn’t really take issue with that. Well, I could, but let’s not dwell on it…
Such were my thoughts as I stood on the shoulder of my mountain. At least, I believed I was standing. But as my reverie lifted, imperceptibly at first, I realised that I was actually moving. More specifically, I was continuing my ascent. This should have been a big decision, which my conscious mind had yet to grapple with… yet here I was, homing in on the spire of that Gothic cathedral. I don’t know why, but it seemed to be the only natural course of action. Call it primal instinct. Or call it a death-wish if you like… for the ridge steepened and narrowed, then narrowed and steepened. Really quite alarmingly.
My auto-pilot juddered to a halt as I scrutinized the scene before me.
The true crest of the ridge reared up ahead, and would shortly form a mighty prow. A direct assault was out of the question. An alpine novice like me probably shouldn’t even be here to consider it. Sandy would have stood back calmly and pondered that eternal climbers’ quandary: Will it go? The least desperate line of attack seemed to be a gully on the left, which constricted into a chimney before spilling out onto angled slabs. Don’t think (I thought), lest common sense prevail. Just go for it…
As I scraped and wriggled my way up, the death-wish scenario - which had briefly intruded back in the fog - became both frighteningly real and increasingly absurd. It was real because the threat of falling was real, the scrambling ever more exposed. Yet it was also absurd, because I was evidently clinging on for… well, for grim death. If anything was falling away and plunging into darkness, it was the thought of letting go.
Maybe my so-called death-wish was just a confused life-wish? If so, at least the confusion itself was familiar. Throughout the pain of lockdown, confined to my flat and defined by my moods, I’d felt like that clichéd cartoon character who hosts an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. I’m sure you know the bothersome wee buggers: one life-affirming and brimming with vitality, its counterpart equally determined to snuff out any hope. Our personal yin and yang, or Jekyll and Hyde if you prefer. Yet if my inner devil had sent me up this mountain, I could feel the mountain itself helping me to fight back. My ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ was clearly waning. The Stones song returned to my head, and as it did so that ominous backing refrain began to sound steadily more joyous: Woo-hoo!
And yes, I felt a certain masochistic thrill as I scrabbled across those airy slabs at the top of the chimney. There was a grim satisfaction in crunching through a crystalline patch of snow discarded by winter. It didn’t matter that I was short of breath, that my heart was pumping and my legs aching. These were merely physical symptoms, signs of exertion and understandable lack of fitness. It didn’t even matter that I was scared of the drop, of becoming stranded on a precipice. It was the fear of these things that would keep me safe. The danger would fuel an adrenaline rush, but the rush was not in pursuit of further danger. My quest was not that of the insatiable adrenaline junkie, intent on self-destruction. In that instant, I instead craved precision and purpose, and secure passage up this teetering spire. As to where this uplifting revelation would lead… well, let’s live for the moment and let the fates decide.
I sensed, as much as saw, that I was approaching the final few hurdles. I improvised a crab-like manoeuvre over a large block, regaining the upper crest of the ridge above the prow. The rock was rough and coarse-grained, much like the mountain itself. I was thankful that it felt dry and textured… with such a slender spire above, most of the day’s run-off had slid into the void. I was keen to avoid a similar slippery end; I clutched and grasped at handholds, measuring progress by a trail of scuffed skin.
Being a cathedral roof, the holds twisted themselves into gargoyles before my weary eyes. Some of them adopted the features of people I knew. Here was Jim, and there was Mrs. McCormack, both wearing grotesque expressions at my impertinence for being so wayward. Within a few steps, a veritable rogue’s gallery had materialised. I traversed a craggy likeness of Sandy (who didn’t deserve it), followed by the rest of the Expedition Society (who probably did). Never Jen, though. Lovely Jen could never be a gargoyle. And if that’s my idea of a compliment, no wonder she left! I sighed at her absence.
Come on, keep focus… this is no time to falter!
Pause… breathe… pause… now breathe some more.
Once my thoughts had settled, the home straight was actually pretty easy. Route-finding was a doddle: you either stuck to the crest or you fell off. I chose the crest, and I inched along it… until, steeling myself to bridge a final hiatus, I stepped onto the tiny summit.
I wasn’t sure what I would feel at this point. Mostly, I suspect, because I never truly believed that I’d make it. Not until those last delicate strides, when the sides of the spire converged and I could climb no higher. So what did I feel? Elation perhaps… or just relief? Was I buoyant or exhausted? Awe-struck by the scenery? Or intimidated by the beckoning descent? To be honest, I don’t know. It was all of these things, and none of them. Strangely, I had a better idea what Sandy would feel if he could see me right now: proud and envious. Proud that his nervous hill-walking acolyte had finally graduated, yet envious that I’d out-done the Expedition Society by conquering such a worthy foe. Just to annoy me, he’d also point out that I hadn’t actually conquered the mountain… it had merely allowed me visiting rights.
If visiting rights were a thing (Sandy’s muse persisted), maybe my presence here was part of some divine plan. And now that I was here, atop this precarious perch, I didn’t quite know why.
Neither did I expect to hear a voice. At least, it sounded like a voice. I froze. There it was again: fleeting, lost in a tug of air. Silence. Then it returned, quiet yet insistent, as though a radio dial had picked up a distant signal. I couldn’t make out the words, but I was pretty sure that it was a male voice… softly spoken, almost reverential, with a distinctive Irish lilt. I scanned the rocks before me.
The mountaintop comprised a raised parapet, only a couple of paces wide but a few yards in length. Narrow and exposed; apparently deserted. Toward the end of this parapet lay a modest heap of stones which served as the summit cairn - basically a pimple on a pyramid, yet (I began to realise) capable of concealing the odd recumbent figure. This area now held my attention. And sure enough, as I edged forward, glimpses of colour coalesced into the shape of a person. Presumably more than one person, deep in conversation.
It sounds silly - embarrassing to admit - but I wasn’t ready for this. After such a long, solitary ascent, I hadn’t been expecting it. And I had been buoyant at topping out, I knew that now… but I’d got ahead of myself with all that vanquishing demons nonsense. I’d been seduced by the thrill of overcoming that summit spire, of floating up it like a steeplejack… which is overstating things, I know, but endorphins love false bravado. The fact is, this was a different type of challenge; one which I’d been secretly avoiding while pretending to be Edmund bloody Hillary. Except that Hillary hadn’t been alone either… if this was my Everest, the time had come to meet Sherpa Tenzing and team!
I’m ashamed to say that I considered turning tail and burning rubber. (I don’t burn rubber often, although I was wearing Vibram soles!) Two things prevented me. The first was that I wanted to actually reach the cairn, to prove that I’d really done it. A small thing, yes, but peak-baggers will understand! The more significant factor was fear of betraying the ‘Contour Code’.
Since the Contour Code is made up, I should probably explain… This was a term coined by Sandy to define the ethics of conversing with strangers in hill-country. I suppose it was mostly a joke, though of the truth-spoken-in-jest variety. Put simply, wilderness areas are ringed by a magical height contour, slicing the landscape like an invisible snow-line. Above this contour we develop an instinctive urge to meet-and-greet fellow travelers, even extending to full eye contact if we feel daring. And the remarkable thing is, neither party feels freaked out or threatened by this overtly friendly behaviour. At lower altitudes the greeting might constitute a mere nod of the head or a passing “Hello”. But as height is gained and crowds become less madding (as it were), the likelihood of meaningful conversation increases… from cursory exchanges about the weather, through humdrum hill-walking anecdotes (tales of gore-tex and gaitors), to the full monty of life, the universe and everything. Until you get really high of course - Himalaya high - at which point Death Zone skullduggery tends to interrupt the flow.
Subtleties aside, one thing was clear: to turn my back on these summit strangers would constitute a blatant breach of the Contour Code. Without doubt, our contour count up here was seriously high… some might say through the roof. Unfortunately I could barely manage life, let alone the universe and everything.
I had a litmus test for situations like this, tongue-in-cheek but serviceable… What would Jim do? He’d start at the beginning and let things unfold from there. Remember the basics… the training from our group sessions. “Pleased to meet you…” - I turned the phrase over in my head - “Pleased to meet you…” It sounded oddly formal; and more than that, it wasn’t true. I wasn’t pleased to meet these people. They were called strangers for a reason. And they were intruding on my new-found triumph… destroying it, even. “Pleased to meet you” only works if it’s genuine. It’s either heartfelt or it rings hollow, like a broken promise or a forced apology.
Even so, I couldn’t deny it: I shared a unique bond with my fellow summiteers (whoever they were). We were probably the only folk in the world who would climb this particular peak on this particular day; to wish away the mist and stumble on regardless; to risk life and limb for this slender spire of gnarly rock. For this fleeting moment in time, it was our mountain. Which didn’t necessarily mean that our fates were intertwined… but surely it meant something?
With this tenuous thought, I braved a tortoise-like advance along the summit parapet. And as I did so, a huddled figure came into focus behind the cairn. A crouched, kneeling man; mid-fifties (if I had to guess), with craggy face and sparse sandy-grey beard. Fleece beanie pulled down low; rope slung over one shoulder, climbing gear hanging from his belt. And he hadn’t yet seen me; he stared intently at the ground, where an empty round biscuit tin lay next to his open rucksack. He must have just finished a snack… perhaps while juggling a phone or camera, for he appeared to be alone but continued to talk in hushed, elusive tones.
It felt wrong to disturb him… yet worse to lurk unannounced, an alpine eavesdropper hidden in plain sight. Stop stalling… just get on with it!
My greeting was as brief and bland as I could make it: “How’s it going?” Accompanied, as such banalities usually are, by an involuntary nod of the head.
The man started, snapping his body round to locate me before quickly averting his gaze. His eyes had looked moist, doleful. His chatter ceased abruptly, as though caught in the act, and didn’t resume for my benefit. No phone or camera after all. After a moment’s composure he answered my question with the slightest of shrugs, as if to say that maybe things weren’t going too badly, or maybe they were. Fair enough, it was none of my business.
“Sorry,” I said.
“No, no… you’re fine!” He held up a hand to indicate that no apology was needed. Then, silence.
I made a show of patting the cairn, as though it were a trusty canine companion. Meaning, this is why I intruded, to complete my ascent. Now I can bugger off and leave you in peace.
And I almost did leave then; I’d done my duty, shunning my inner demons by opening a dialogue. Admittedly not much of a dialogue, but there it was. Surely it wasn’t my fault that this man hadn’t signed up to the Contour Code? He was evidently preoccupied, or eccentric, or downright weird… or all of the above. All the more reason to beat a retreat and let the rarefied air absorb the awkwardness.
And yet… in a strange way (which I’m not proud of), I felt heartened by the thought that here was someone in a worse state than me. A social misfit. I’d like to claim that I was driven by an urge to help, but that would be disingenuous; the fact is, I think his vulnerability gave me confidence (if that makes sense?). Whatever the cause, I decided to give it one more go.
“So which way did you come up? The West Ridge?”
“No. Pinnacle Ridge.”
“Oh… OK.” I paused, genuinely impressed. The summit of our mountain was essentially a rocky pyramid supported by three distinct ridges. I knew from the guidebook that Pinnacle Ridge was the most daunting of these, armed with fierce barbs and bristles as it swung in from the north. The West Ridge was also the preserve of rock climbers, tumbling to a knife-edge before ushering in further unseen horrors. By contrast, my own ascent ridge was known simply as the Tourist Route. Being a graded scramble, it was presumably so named with a healthy dose of irony. Nonetheless, it marked the easiest way - the only way - of treading the summit slopes for alpine novices like me. In other words, I’d answered a calling card for wannabe mountaineers. Welcome to the Tourist Route… where the barbs are in the name, not the terrain!
Time to ‘fess up to my new friend: “I just came up the Tourist Route. But then, I haven’t really done much climbing.” I grinned, hoping it appeared self-deprecating.
“Hmm.”
“So how was Pinnacle Ridge?” I turned my head northward. “I can see the pinnacles from here. Must be tricky to solo it!”
“Oh, I didn’t solo it.” The man sounded strangely matter-of-fact. “Janie was with me. I couldn’t have done it without her.”
“Ah, right.” Here was the lightbulb moment. The man’s missing companion. He must have been addressing this Janie all along, cajoling her up the final stretch to the summit. Yet, as I stepped to the edge and surveyed the rocky ramparts of Pinnacle Ridge, something didn’t ring true. His voice hadn’t been that of one climber directing another, booming out over the void. His attention hadn’t been on Pinnacle Ridge at all. And sure enough, I could detect no hidden companion clinging to the crag. No Janie. Nobody.
“Janie’s always wanted to do Pinnacle Ridge.” This time the man spoke unprompted. “And now she has. I’m so proud of her. I’m just so proud of her.” He looked at the empty space over his shoulder. “We made it, Poppet. We finally made it!”
I don’t know if I was more surprised by the imaginary companion or the Poppet. He didn’t seem a Poppet kind of guy. Still, it takes all sorts.
“Good for you!” I tried to sound unfazed. “Good for both of you!”
Was I humoring this man or placating him? I wasn’t sure. The situation was treading a fine line between funny and disturbing. Perhaps to buy some thinking time, I removed the rucksack from my back and rummaged around for my water bottle and packet of cookies.
But the stranger was now building up steam: “Yeah, Janie planned the whole route. She’s the real climber, not me. Nothing ever phases her.” He moved to the edge, gesticulating at the scenery far below. “Her masterplan: up Pinnacle Ridge to the summit; down the West Ridge, into the corrie and back along the rim of the gorge. You can see the gorge if you crane right over - look…”
And with that he grabbed my arm, tugging me a little too roughly toward the precipice. My boots clattered and skidded over the stones, sending some of them scurrying over the drop. I could feel my legs begin to buckle.
This was no longer a toss-up between funny and disturbing; it had veered more into the realm of threatening. My mind whirred. I had youth on my side, yet this man was burly and imposing. Not to mention delusional. And more than this, he was a bona-fide climber, with the metalwork to prove it. My inner demon screamed that I shouldn’t even be here: I was just a tourist, out of my depth. An impostor. If the worst came to the worst - if he didn’t just shove me off - what did I have to take him on? Oh yeah, that’s right… a child’s pair of compasses! Which are dangerous if running in a corridor, but hardly a match for a rock hammer.
“Do you see it?” the man continued. “Do you see the gorge?”
Think fast… nothing to hand but the cookies. Placate… accept and divert…
“I can see the gorge all right. Would Janie like a biscuit?”
The stranger’s face registered momentary shock, before his expression transformed into… what was it? Understanding? Bemusement? When his reply came it was considered, almost reverential in tone: “I think Janie’s had enough biscuits for one day.” He motioned with his head, indicating the empty round biscuit tin. Then, slightly more loudly, “Haven’t you, Poppet?”
He helped me back from the edge before releasing my arm. His eyes softened. “Look, I’m sorry. I get a little carried away sometimes. I’m James, by the way. James Caird.”
And with that, James Caird held out his hand. It was trembling quite badly. An elbow bump might have been more advisable, but I sensed we had bigger fish to fry. So I shook his hand earnestly, saying nothing in return. I was hardly in the mood for “Pleased to meet you…”
“Janie would shake your hand too if she could. She loves meeting people. She’s better at all this than I am.”
“I’ll bet,” I replied, mostly under my breath. “Anyway, join the club. I’m not the best at first impressions myself.”
The two of us - or three of us - slowly took stock. I swigged some water and bit into another cookie, wishing that Sandy were here to share this strange encounter and shoulder the burden of conversation. Only to him it wouldn’t be a burden, it would be open-air theatre. Sandy had thrived on the bizarre, seeing serendipity at every twist and turn. Happenstance followed him around like a benevolent stalker.
I’d even witnessed it once, first-hand. We were up a mountain together, on one of our walking weekends in Wales. A particularly remote location… somewhere in the Nether Regions, as we used to say. Anyway, we were tucking into our summit sarnies when another walker appeared. He seemed a bit mature for us students (most folk were!), but we remembered the Contour Code and got talking. Before leaving, we compared notes on where we were from. Such-and-such a county, said Sandy. Really, me too! Whereabouts? You probably won’t know it… such-and-such a town. No!! I certainly do know it! Which part of town? So we zoomed in, ever closer, and hey presto!… it turned out that Sandy and this random stranger were next-door neighbours! Yet they’d never spoken. Not until this chance encounter on a mountain top, hundreds of miles from home.
So there it was: one of Sandy’s curious little coincidences. He and the neighbour went on to become firm friends, and I dare say are still enjoying cheese and wine soirees in a cul-de-sac somewhere (or whatever it is people do with neighbours these days). Yet even that fateful episode hadn’t stretched to an imaginary friend. What would Sandy make of Janie, I wondered? I was pretty sure that he wouldn’t simply write it off as delusion on the part of our stranger, this James Caird. He’d look to Janie herself for answers, arguing that even an ethereal presence - a mere shadow - can serve a rational real-world purpose.
Thinking about it, he’d probably invoke Ernest bloody Shackleton again, erstwhile hero of the Expedition Society. I remember Sandy telling me about Shackleton’s greatest expedition, calling it the Apollo13 of polar exploration… meaning that the mission was a failure, but the triumph was in battling the odds and returning home alive. A fair comparison, too, because Antarctica really had been ‘the final frontier’ back in Shackleton’s day.
On this particular expedition, the Endurance would never even make landfall. She became entombed in pack-ice; the vice constricted; and slowly but surely, the vessel was suffocated and swallowed. The crew abandoned ship, yet refused to abandon hope. Instead, they salvaged three lifeboats and hauled them over the frozen floes in search of open sea. They found it, but ended up marooned - locked down, you might say - on some godforsaken island with no supplies and no chance of rescue. No shelter either, except for their tiny upturned boats. In a desperate bid to fetch help, Shackleton formed a skeleton crew and sailed one of these flimsy wooden tubs for almost a thousand miles across the savage Southern Ocean. I forget the name of that intrepid wee skiff, but it carried them as far as South Georgia… where the surf cast them ashore on the deserted side of the island. And here’s the twist: while crossing South Georgia on foot, stumbling and flailing through alps and over glaciers, Shackleton’s party sensed the presence of a mysterious companion. They were no longer a starving gaggle of three, but a purposeful troupe of four. A ghostly stranger was lighting their way. A guardian angel, seeing them home.
So yeah, I reckon Sandy would view Janie as a guardian angel, guiding this troubled soul across Pinnacle Ridge. And hopefully down the West Ridge too, come to that. He’d doubtless look for some serendipitous connection linking Shackleton to James Caird. Good luck with that!
I must confess, though, I wasn’t so sure. For one thing, I had my doubts that Shackleton would have called his guardian angel Poppet.
I looked round at Mr. Poppet, who’d been suspiciously quiet for the past few moments. Mouthing the odd word, though nothing certifiable. Probably lost in thought, as I had been. He was now back at the cairn, packing up his biscuit tin. It left a perfect circle where crumbs had spilled over onto the summit slab. I assumed he’d be snacked out after all that, but he produced a chocolate bar from his rucksack. I watched him snap the bar into segments through the wrapper. Then he tore it open and held out the contents for my inspection.
“Fancy some Yorkie? Janie’s favourite…”
I took a chunk. “Yorkie, eh? Not a trucker, is she?”
Whoa… way too cheeky! It had slipped out before my brain could engage…
James halted, stern-faced. He held the pose for a couple of beats, as though weighing up whether to be amused or offended. Then plonked himself down on the rim of the precipice, legs dangling in the direction of Pinnacle Ridge. And with quiet conviction, he began to speak. To really speak.
“Janie is… Janie was my wife. The best person I ever knew. She was the kindest, sweetest…” James broke off. For the first time, I noticed that he was referring to Janie in the past tense. I sat on the rock beside him, carefully recoiling my boots from the clifftop. I remained still, maintaining the silence for as long as it took.
“I thought… well, I thought it was nothing at first. We both did.” He stared absently into the void. “I tried to put her mind at rest, reassure her that everything was OK. So it was my fault that she didn’t get checked. By the time she was diagnosed, the cancer had taken hold. There was nothing we could do. Too little, too late…” James tailed off, bowing his head.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured.
“No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry to burden you. I wouldn’t usually do this. But it all happened so fast. I mean, we’d even booked this trip. Just imagine, planning a holiday in blissful ignorance of… of the end. And all of this…” - he held out his arms, embracing the landscape - “…this was to be our grand adventure. Our mountain. As if it matters now! But Janie made me promise… said I should follow it through, and she’d be right here with me. She’d guide me along it.”
“And she has,” I offered, inadequately. “She’d be proud, seeing you now. She is proud.”
“Yeah… yeah.” James turned his head to look at me; voice breaking, eyes pleading. He forced a weak smile. More silence. I didn’t know what else to say… wasn’t even sure that he wanted me to say anything.
Eventually I shuffled forward until my legs were also dangling. And there we perched, implausibly, like a pair of rag dolls balanced on a skyscraper. We polished off the Yorkie between us, the chunks hard as bricks in the creeping coldness. I squirmed over my earlier trucker remark (goddamn marketing stereotypes!), but James waved it away. He told me more about Janie, of her ideals and aspirations. Of the small things which both hurt and heal the most. And of her playful irreverence - a refusal to stand on ceremony - which had persisted, with swelling poignancy, right through to her final journey. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a battered silver hipflask. He took a quick swig before passing it to me.
“Here… something to warm you up.”
“What is it?” I asked. “Whisky?”
“The local malt: Talisker.” He indicated our craggy surroundings. “On the rocks!”
I affected a grin-cum-groan. Then solemnly held up the flask: “Here’s to Janie!”
“To Janie!” echoed James.
And here’s to Jen, my mind unexpectedly added.
I took a large swig. The warmth trickled down my throat like liquid lava. It was powerful stuff: pungent and peaty, with a hint of seaweed which had somehow been transposed from shore to summit. Mrs. M wouldn’t approve, but what the hell. She wasn’t here.
Still, there are drawbacks to imbibing at such altitudes. As James continued to drain the Scotch, I tapped his coil of rope. “Hey, remember the West Ridge. You’re not planning to ‘drink and abseil’, are you?” I don’t know why, but I used air quotes for the ‘drink and abseil’.
“I’ll be fine. Anyway, who’s going to be patrolling the route?”
“Dunno. Scotland Yard, maybe?”
He grinned. “Funny you should say that. There did used to be a policeman on the West Ridge - a rock obelisk known as The Gendarme - but it toppled a few years ago.” He paused, as though formulating a thought. “Goes to show… even mountains age and crumble. Their permanence is… well, just an illusion. I suppose nothing lasts forever. All we really have is a series of moments. Janie said our lives were like short films… that we should enjoy every frame before the tape falls off the reel.”
This made some sort of sense, even if it was all a bit Forrest Gump. (That’s the thing about life analogies… they’re like a box of chocolates!) I said nothing in return, though gladly accepted another turn at the hipflask.
“Thanks for listening,” said James. “I think I needed it.”
“Yeah, well… people say I’m good at listening, but I reckon I’m just bad at talking!”
He smirked, fixing me with a stare. “Anyway, what about you? What are you doing up here all alone?”
“Lots of people hike alone…” I felt a little defensive. “It’s not unusual.”
“Thanks for that, Tom Jones!”
I hadn’t expected this quip, and laughed out loud - my first real belly laugh for as long as I could remember.
But James persisted: “No, seriously… what has brought you here? I don’t think it’s the climbing. Not really. So what’s your story? No one foolhardy enough to join you?”
“There used to be, but we dropped out of contact.” I thought for a moment. This wasn’t stuff I was comfortable talking about - even in my sessions with Jim - but after everything James had laid bare, it seemed a little churlish not to reciprocate. In any case, what harm could it do? I was hardly likely to encounter him again.
“I suppose I’m just getting away from it all,” I offered, slightly weakly.
“Away from what?”
“Nothing, really. Maybe that’s the problem. There’s nothing to get away from. It’s all so… predictable. The same four walls, day after day.” I sighed. “I used to have someone, way back when. Jen was the best thing in my life, ‘til lockdown happened. Or maybe that’s just an excuse. But there was a time, before all of this, when I thought we really had something. Not like you and Janie, but still… something to build on. I was going to propose, for Christ’s sake, even though I don’t really believe in marriage and all that Happy Family stuff. Then she left. Turned out I was right not to believe in happy endings.”
“So what do you believe in?”
I snorted. “I don’t really believe in anything, I suppose. Why would I? Now take Mrs. McCormack, who runs the guesthouse over there…” - I waved dismissively at the island down below - “… she believes. Flippin’ obsessed with it. Trust in the Lord, or whatever. She reckons I’m on some sort of pilgrimage… that I’ll find God up here and be magically saved.”
“Maybe you will.” James noticed my withering stare, hastily adding: “Devil’s advocate?”
This time I humphed, a little louder than intended. “I don’t know about finding God, but my mate Sandy once found his next-door neighbour up a mountain. I’m not sure there was anything holy about it though… just an unholy bloody coincidence!” I swung my legs to and fro as we passed the hipflask between us. The Talisker was starting to hit the spot.
“So how about you and Janie?” I continued. “Have the pair of you found God up here?”
James’ reply was quiet, pensive: “I think Janie has, you know. Or at least, she’s found peace. Maybe that’s the same thing.”
I considered this. “You mean an inner peace… angel on the shoulder, that sort of thing?” I remembered my earlier musings about the conflict within. Maybe this was what James was going through now, with his grief and inner voices. Maybe Janie was the angel on his shoulder, keeping him from inching forward into freefall.
“Yeah, but God isn’t just on the inside. I think that’s why we seek out places like this… to connect ourselves to the world. To breathe in the vastness of it all.” James threw his arms into the air. “I mean, just look at it. How could you not believe there’s some sort of divine purpose?”
“Now you sound like Sandy,” I said. “Or Mrs. McCormack.” But I did look, and I saw what James was getting at.
Beyond Pinnacle Ridge the mountain smoothed itself into moorland, clothing the terrain like Tweed. Further along the arm of a sea-loch reached into frame. It pointed the way to distant hills and a hint of otherworldly shapes, obscured by haze. Or perhaps I was imagining these shapes, for I knew they were out there, like primeval bones poking through the fabric of time. From this height everything was flattened out, beautiful in its simplicity yet devoid of detail. The human race, with its woes and wonders and infinite complexities, barely registered as a blip.
And this was the less dramatic side. Over our shoulders the great rock peaks played hide and seek in the cloud. Walls of black and battleship grey… a tin of paint would doubtless label the shade Alpine Steel, or some such bluster. And those flecks of white water where shafts of sunlight chased away the rain… Dancing Silk. Between these competing undercoats, I couldn’t decide whether the scene was oppressive or euphoric. Perhaps it was both. Yet the encroaching nightfall would soon smother the crags with Alpine Steel, reducing its joyous counterpart to a splash of sound and a fading spark of memory.
My eye traced the main mountain spine as it snaked away from our summit, down the West Ridge to the rock towers beyond. This was less shades of grey and more fairground attraction. It would dwarf any theme park in the world - the very comparison seemed tacky - yet I tried to conjure a tagline: a petrified rollercoaster for equally petrified passengers. I imagined generations of climbers, carefree versions of James, performing a high-wire act over these castle ramparts… battling turrets and tightropes frozen in stone.
Yet beneath my mind’s irreverence was… well, genuine reverence. This really was an astounding place. As I took it all in, mist flitted around the crenellations like ghosts. This was a day of ghosts. I thought of Janie, who had longed to tread these slopes but was present only in spirit, keeping James from the darkness. A haunted man in a haunted landscape… shadows within and shadows without.
“Perhaps the purpose is just to be here,” I suggested. “To feel that sense of… what do the French call it?”
“Je ne sais quoi.”
“I don’t know what, either.”
James shook his head, grinning despite himself. “You almost feel it, but you just can’t help yourself. You still don’t really believe, do you?” I sensed that it was a dare rather than an accusation; perhaps even an invitation.
I turned to face him. “I get Nature. Give it a capital N if you like. But if you’re talking about the spooky stuff… you know, the truth is out there… yeah, I don’t really buy it.” I paused, formulating my thoughts. “I’d be more inclined to believe in God if I knew which one to pick. I mean, there are so many of them. My old music teacher used to say there were too many Messiahs to get a Handel on. Nobody ever laughed, but he had a point. How does anyone ever choose?” In my mind the panoply of Gods were laid out like an army of stroppy miracle-workers, all refusing to strut their stuff unless you believed in them and them alone. And yes, Mrs. M would have called the flippancy police by now. Even James was rolling his eyes. I ploughed on regardless.
“Seriously though, where should we put our money? On the God with the hammer or the one with eight arms? On the Holy Ghost or that winged horse? And which miraculous superpower? Resurrection or… what’s it called, reincarnation?”
“So reincarnation’s a superpower?” James shook his head. “Not exactly a theology professor, are you?”
“Maybe I’ll be re-born as one!”
I tipped back my head and took another swig of the good stuff. Perhaps it was working a little too well; loosening my tongue a tad too much. I tried to will myself back to sobriety by focusing on the subject at hand. The trouble is, James was right… flippant remarks aside, I knew diddly squat about any of this. I should be listening and learning, not mumbling and stumbling my way along like a final-pint philosopher at closing time.
I certainly shouldn’t be babbling on about Eastern mysticism, or wherever these garbled thoughts were headed. I’d probably be quoting Sgt. Pepper next - We’re all one, and life flows on within you and without you. Karma and sanctity of life were all very well, but I could hardly base a philosophical debate on hazily-remembered George Harrison lyrics. I tried to recall the names of the gurus from My Sweet Lord, but could hear only the intro… that part where the big acoustic chords give way to slide guitar. Which is pretty catchy - maybe even spiritual - but I’ve a feeling the main message was lost on me. This was never my Sweet Lord, it was somebody else’s.
I decided to park the gurus (I think the head honcho was Harry someone?) and return to my original argument:
“But you know what I’m saying. Our beliefs are determined by a fluke of our birth. Location and culture. It’s… I don’t know, it’s like a cosmic version of the postcode lottery. So when you ask me to believe in something, to choose a God, I might as well pin the tail on a donkey.” As I said this, my mind drifted to the pantomime donkey from my old school Nativity play. For some reason I’d always been cast as the arse end. Or being a donkey, perhaps I should say the ass end?
“Well,” said James, “maybe we’ve got this all backwards.”
“How do you mean?”
“Maybe the question isn’t whether we believe in a God, but whether a God believes in us.”
I must have glazed over, for James gave a wry smile before continuing: “Look, you don’t need to choose a God. Choose any of them or none of them; I don’t care. But we all need to believe in ourselves, right?” I nodded tentatively. Where was he going with us? “The thing is, self-belief is a damn sight easier to achieve if someone is looking out for us. A helping hand, offering reassurance. You know, protecting and inspiring us. Maybe our God does this, or maybe it’s a more personal presence. Like Janie, guiding me up and over those pinnacles. Giving me purpose, even after she’s moved on. She believed in me, so I believed in myself.”
“So hang on… Janie is your God?”
James grinned ruefully. “You can put it that way if you like. I doubt Janie objects.” He cast his eyes skyward. “Do you, Poppet?”
I had a sense of deja vu as an earlier thought popped back into my head. A connection with Sandy, or at least my projection of his memory… my otherworldly musings on his behalf. I snorted involuntarily.
“What is it?”
“Sorry, nothing.” James looked inquisitive; perhaps it would be ruder not to expand… “Oh, just something I was thinking of when I reached the summit. About guardian angels… and how they appear when they’re most needed…” I wavered, but still had an avid listener looking expectant. “Well, OK then… I’d remembered Shackleton’s epic voyage when he escaped the Antarctic. You know, the famous explorer from 100 years ago, or whenever it was. He reported that a mysterious companion had helped him to safety. Like Janie’s helping you now.” James was staring incredulously. “In a good way, I mean,” I quickly added. “Do you know the story? The open boat journey to South Georgia, then crossing the island with…”
“Do I know it?” James was suddenly strident. “I’ve studied the legend of that wee boat… even went to see it in a museum. A leaky old tub, but turned out to be Shackleton’s saviour. Janie said I was obsessed with it. If you want to know why, you should look up its name!”
“You can’t leave it there, surely? Why am I hearing The Twilight Zone in my head?”
“Well, it will soon be twilight.” But he said no more; this evidently wasn’t the time. Or perhaps the mystery was more alluring than the revelation, as with magicians who refuse to explain their tricks. Instead we took further turns at the malt. The good old water of life, weaving its own brand of psychedelic magic. A giddy brand it was, too.
When James resumed his voice had softened; he leant in, looking right at me. “Hey, never mind old polar explorers, or epic boat journeys. Or me and Janie for that matter. You need to find your own story of self-belief. And you will. Just have some faith in yourself. Give your life some meaning; a purpose. It doesn’t matter what. And yep, you’ll make mistakes along the way… that’s how we learn and grow stronger. But focus on the simple stuff and the rest will fall into place.”
“Hmm… it’s that easy?”
“Of course it isn’t easy. But then, climbing this mountain wasn’t easy, was it?”
I remained stoically silent, draining the last of the Scotch and handing the silver hipflask back to James. For the first time, I noticed an embossed J on the side. I absently wondered whether this was for Janie or for James himself. It didn’t matter… either way, I was increasingly thinking about Jen. Probably just my tipsiness talking.
“So what’s to stop you contacting this Jen?” It seemed that James could read my mind. Magicians and their tricks…
“Well, there’s the restraining order.” My mock-serious expression began to slip. “Joke!”
The weak gag had masked my agitation and rising heart rate. Believing in myself was one thing, but this seemed an unimaginable leap. I needed to take things slowly; one step at a time. How could I resurrect a meaningful relationship when I couldn’t even converse with folk? When I was so broken that the very idea of a polite introduction filled me with dread?
James persisted, undiminished: “Look, I’m not saying it’s straightforward. These things never are. But you won’t know unless you try, will you? Me and Janie have come full circle, but you and Jen… well, it’s up to you. It’s your roll of the dice. Like I said, you took a punt at this mountain, and here you are… you made it!”
“I made it via the Tourist Route!” I protested. “It’s hardly the Holy Grail of mountaineering. Anyway, don’t they say the summit is only half way?”
“You’ve got me there!” conceded James. “But maybe that’s the point… the rest of your adventure stretches out ahead.”
“In a downhill slide, you mean?”
“You know fine what I mean: your path is up to you. Or down to you, if you insist!” His breath condensed and was whisked into the ether like a Will o’ the Wisp. It led my eye to a thin crescent moon which had begun to seep through the veil of day. Shadows were advancing; the wind rising and temperature falling. James had clocked it too. He sprang to his feet, oblivious to the yawning drop below. “And talking of downhill slides,” he continued, “I’d best make tracks. You ought to get going too, I reckon. Wouldn’t want to get stuck up here in the dark.”
“Jesus Christ!” I blurted. A horrible realisation had just dawned. “I never thought… I mean, I hadn’t expected to be out for so long!”
“You didn’t bring a torch, did you?” said James. It was more a statement than a question. He was just fitting a head-torch himself, adjusting it beneath his fleece beanie.
“Not unless Mrs. McCormack packed one,” I mumbled, rummaging frantically through my rucksack. “Sod it, there’s nothing. And no blanket or bivvy bag.”
As I turned in desperation toward James, I saw that he was casually holding out a second head-torch. “Here you go,” he said. “Janie’s torch. I’ve got some spare batteries here somewhere as well.”
I remained motionless, stunned, as James pressed the torch into my hand. Curiously, after everything we’d been thrashing out, I could feel myself start to crumble at this simple gesture. I couldn’t quite pinpoint my emotions: relief and gratitude, certainly, with a hint of embarrassment at my foolishness. But something else too. Maybe a slither of sadness at our imminent departure?
“I can’t take the torch,” I heard myself say. “I couldn’t possibly. I mean, it’s Janie’s…”
“She’d want you to have it,” asserted James. “Like I said, Janie was the kindest soul I ever knew. She guided me here… please, let her help you down the mountain. To light your way home.”
And with that, James Caird shouldered his rucksack, re-coiled his rope, and strode across the summit parapet. He gave the cairn a parting bow, in apparent deference, before reaching the top of the West Ridge. The start of his descent route was marked by a small arch in an outcrop of rock, like a dormer window in our cathedral roof. He clambered through, almost disappearing faster than I could say my goodbyes.
“Hey, James,” I called. “Go carefully. Janie will be with you. She’ll be watching over you.”
He paused, gazing back at me through the rock window with a look of wry confusion.
“Janie’s staying here!” came his muffled reply. James nodded in the direction of the cairn. Gently yet decisively, to the place where his tin had left a perfect circle on the slab. Then he ducked out of sight, his presence reduced to a fading clatter of stones.
I gingerly approached the cairn. And there in the dirt, concealed by the rocks, lay a grey pile of ashes. I stared dumbfounded as their surface became sculpted by the breeze, each successive gust stealing a few grains and scattering them to oblivion. Or to God-knows-where. I watched awhile longer, wondering whether to call James back and proclaim that I finally understood. It was too late for that, but I think he knew. Maybe he’d known all along. Just as I’d known, in a hidden quirk of destiny, that Shackleton’s trusty lifeboat had been called the James Caird.
The light was now rapidly failing, so I fitted my torch - Janie’s torch - and dragged myself away from the cairn. Mrs. McCormack would be starting to worry, and the thought of it bothered me. If I needed a purpose, my most immediate one was to reach safety; if not for my sake, then for hers. For all of her foibles, I realised that I was actually growing quite fond of old Mrs. M. For the first time in a long time, I looked forward to returning home.
I began a steady descent of the Tourist Route, urging myself to maintain concentration. I hesitated at the first steep section, my mind turning cartwheels as I hugged the rock. It wasn’t the crag that had stopped me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something seemed wrong… unresolved. Then it hit me. I rose, on the edge of all things, and regained the tiny summit.
At the very top of the mountain Janie’s ashes continued to flutter. I stood alongside her shrine, feeling strangely at peace.
“Pleased to meet you, Janie,” I whispered.
