Summer and Winter on Stuc a' Chroin. Part 2, Winter.

Around this time I discovered there was a Kirkcaldy and District Mountaineering Club. Joining as a junior member cost £1. I would wait outside the paper shop on Kinghorn High Street for the bus to arrive, usually about 8am. On the first trip, in October, the rain hammered down and didn't let up till late afternoon. The roads were bad in those days and we didn't arrive at Forest Lodge at Inveroran till eleven o' clock. As the weather was awful most of the members went for a low level walk down Glen Kinglass. I was impatient with this chattering gaggle and set off into the mist to climb Stob Gabhar. I was soon completely soaked but made it to the summit where I met a couple of other lads from the bus. I felt quite self righteous about this as we were the only ones who made the effort.



Stob Gabhar from Loch Tulla near Inveroran. October 2015

Back at the bus I sat on the step and poured about a pint of water out of each boot. I hadn't thought of bringing a change of clothes so had to sit in wet clothes all the way home. We'd dropped off two lads at Bridge of Orchy and picked them up again. The bus hadn't travelled far when one of them asked the driver to stop so he could vomit spectacularly onto the verge. He came back into the bus muttering sheepishly

"It must have been the pork chops"

I knew he was a real mountaineer because he was wearing big boots, ragged tweed breaches with braces and a tartan shirt. I couldn't fathom, however, why I was soaking wet and he had remained dry.

The real mountaineer.

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In November we went to Glen Clova. For once the weather was half decent with only a few snow squalls high up. We climbed the steep Scorrie onto Driesh then walked over the plateau to Mayar, all covered in light snow, then descended by Corrie of Fee. I was impressed by this place and made a mental note to return as soon as I could.

For the last trip of the year the bus picked up some people from the Rosyth Civil Service Mountaineering Club and took us up to the Lawers range. I climbed Ben Ghlas with two men and a young woman from Rosyth in wild, snowy conditions. We could hardly stand on the summit so they turned back but I was exhilarated and decided to push on to Ben Lawers. Unfortunately the coll between the two peaks was a sheet of ice and I was blown over and had to whack my pick in and crawl on hands and knees. I thought things were getting a bit silly so slid over the edge on my backside to get out of the wind and made my way down by the old ski hut. I was annoyed when I found that another two people and a German Shepherd dog had made it to the summit.

By this time I'd read W.H. Murrays's ' Mountaineering in Scotland' and although most of it was above my school boy head the chapter about high camping in winter interested me immensely. I read it several times. As the winter came on a began to think about another jaunt.



Lochearnhead from the summit of Stuc a' Chroin.

It was the 26th December 1964 and almost a year since we'd been washed out by the great Glen Ogle gale. Now we were in a Ford Anglia on the road to Callander, driven by Robert's dad. As we approached the town the sky over Ben Ledi was leaden grey and the first few flakes of snow were beginning to fall.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked.

"It's only a few flakes," I said, "It'll probably come to nothing."

"I hope your right."

During the walk in the conditions became worse. We found shelter in a shed at Arivurichardich and ate a snack, watching balefully as the snow came down, heavier every minute.The plan was to follow the same route as taken in the summer, up to Lochan a' Chroin. The contrast in the seasons couldn't have been greater. It was as well that we knew the way as the mist and snow closed right down. We struggled up the steep slope on a few inches of new snow, two steps forward, one sliding back. Fortunately we had ice axes which were useful as walking sticks and to whack into the slope to stop a slip. My heavy load suddenly became lighter as the tent slipped off the top of my rucksack and slithered into the deep burn gulley. I had no choice but to retrieve it as our survival depended on the tent. I'd rarely used an ice axe and it seemed ludicrous using it in a burn gulley instead of the pristine snowfields of a sunlit summit. I rescued the tent and whacked my way up the banking using the pick for security. This couldn't have taken very long but when I emerged from the gulley the mist seemed thicker and it was now getting dark. We were concerned because everything was taking so long. Having come up here without a care in the long days of summer we were now faced by the winter night, snow and mist closing in around us.

 I was relieved when the slope began to ease a little and I was in the lead when it began to flatten out. I had feeling that we were nearing the loch. The snow was deep and level. I moved forward cautiously for twenty or thirty yards. There was no horizon, no view other than a few feet. When I glanced round I could just make out the ghostly figure of Robert who was a few yards behind me. The snow swirled down relentlessly, piling up on balaclava and rucksack, plastering us from head to foot. I had the dawning sense of something wrong. I looked at the snow at my feet. It was incredibly smooth and without spears of grass or heather sticking out of it. I shouted,

"Robert! Stop! I'm on the loch."

I cautiously retraced my steps till I new there was grass below me.



The realisation of walking on thin ice.

Following what we thought was the edge of the loch we came to the spot we'd camped at the summer before. By scraping with our boots and axes we moved as much snow as we could and pitched the tent. This went well till I removed a glove and picked up a steel peg which immediately froze to my skin. We quickly dragged the kit and quite a lot of snow into the tent and pummeled our fingers to restore circulation. With a candle lit and the stove purring away we felt much better. Beneath us lay a couple of inches of snow and frozen turf but we were lying on thick foam mattresses which gave excellent insulation. We were many miles from habitation, it was midwinter and we were completely alone. Conditions had been difficult but we were exactly where we wanted to be. The night had descended, they snow built up on the flysheet and spindrift rustled and swished round the tent. It may seem a strange thing to say, but I was happy.

When the grey light of dawn filtered into the tent the apex of the roof was covered in glittering ice crystals. I had expected this from reading 'Mountaineering in Scotland' and had arranged the vents accordingly to ensure an essential air flow across the roof. This had been a success. What I hadn't expected, and wasn't mentioned by Bill Murray, was frozen boots. To go out for a call of nature and a billy of water for the breakfast I needed boots, but they were frozen solid, with the laces as stiff as pencils. I thawed them out gently over the stove, a practice not recommended by boot manufacturers.




Thawing out frozen boots.

While doing this I said to Robert,

"I wonder what the weathers like? Often after snow like this you get clear skies and a good hard frost."

I pulled on extra sweaters, balaclava, anarak, over trousers and the now wet and clammy boots. I untied the door. A great blast of spindrift blew in as I crawled out into the snow. All around me snow swirled and billowed. It was difficult to tell if it was still snowing or not because of the spindrift. The tent was plastered with snow and barely visible from a few feet away. The mist was just as thick as yesterday but it was much windier. I managed to find a little trickle of water flowing under a turf and filled the billy, then retreated to the tent.

"It's murder out there."

We lay there to midday, occasionally looking out to see if conditions had improved. They hadn't. That afternoon frustration drove us out and we walked as far as we could away from the tent till it was almost out of sight, only twenty or thirty yards. This was no good. We returned to the tent again. Before it grew dark I stuck my head out. Something was happening. We pulled our kit on and crawled out. The mist had lifted a little to reveal a land of brilliant, disorienting white, without form or shadow. The wind had eased, there was no spindrift and a small patch of blue sky opened above us. Then what seemed like a miracle to our sensation starved eyes appeared as the snow and clouds were briefly tinged with pink at the last dying of the day. It did not last long. Soon we were back in shadow, deep blue shadow as the mountains were seized again by the iron grip of cold.

It was another freezing night but again we slept well. As predicted by Bill Murray, who had tried foam mats, I noticed ours were getting damp with condensation and wouldn't have done another night. Our boots required thawing again but when I looked out I could see immediately that conditions had changed. For the first time I could see across the frozen loch. The cloud ceiling had lifted and a thaw had started. The temperature felt more like rain and the snow was turning mushy.


"It's thawing!" I shouted, "It's thawing!"

Our course of action was clear. It was time to go down.



Stuc a' Chroin from Ben Vorlich, Feb. 2016

I stood in the doorway of the paper shop as the rain lashed down. I was waiting to be picked up by the Mountaineering Club bus. It never arrived. I didn't know what had happened and there were no phone numbers on the membership card so that I could contact someone. I never knew if it was a temporary aberration or the club had permanently folded. I still don't know.

I was annoyed at he time but it didn't matter much. Everything was changing. Cammy was working, Josh had gone to Edinburgh University to study medicine, both Philip and Robert joined the Army to learn trades. I had my mind set on Art College and the mountains would recede into the distance for a time. That summer I left school and made some money working at the commercial salmon fishing on the River Tay. I was living in a bothy and turning out for every tide, so I had little time for the mountains. It was hard graft, but a way of life that has, like the salmon, virtually disappeared. That autumn I enrolled at Duncan of Jordanston College of Art, Dundee.