In my youth the Shelter Stone had a fabled reputation. It was the one place that young, aspirant mountaineers wanted to spend at least one night under. Situated in the center of the Cairngorms, between the massive bulks of Cairngorm and Ben Macdui, it was considered remote. To reach it from any direction required a long walk.
With the construction of high car parks and ski lifts in the northern corrie of Cairngorm, all this changed. As the story below relates, you could jump on a chairlift, walk up to the summit of Cairngorm and down to the Shelter Stone in an afternoon.
The drawing was made in 2016. I spent the night at Bob Scotts then walked in to the Shelter Stone carrying only my sketching kit and a light load. Although it was late May it was still cool with melting snow drifts at Loch Etchacan.
The trip related below happened in the 1980's, when I was living in Edinburgh. Neither my pal or I had a car so we took the bus to Aviemore then the local service up to the ski slopes. As is often the case, wild weather trips are often the most memorable.
A SAD BALLAD FROM A DISTANT LAND
I must admit, we cheated. The car parks were deserted but the chair lift was running so we jumped on that. Back in Edinburgh I'd said to Ronnie,
"May is a wonderfully dry month with great, long days to wander in the Cairngorms."
Some hope. The rain was torrential. We disappeared into the clouds rattling and swinging, clutching our packs with frozen hands and screwing our eyes up against the stinging rain. This was no pleasure. The Ptarmigan café at the top of the lift was a damp, miserable bunker where we huddled for a while, waiting for the rain to pass, but it didn't. All we could do was grit our teeth and plod on to the summit. Things could only get better.
We dropped down on a bearing to Corrie Raibert across big, soggy snow fields. Lower down I noticed we had company as two figures appeared out of the mist, walking on a converging course. As they drew closer I could see one had long hair and a beard with, rather oddly, a red air horn strapped to the back of his rucksack. His friend never said much and seemed cold, droukit and dead beat. Their destination was the same as ours, the Shelter Stone.
This well known howff was frustratingly close, but getting there was another matter. It lay on the other side of the wild Feith Bhuidhe. This burn was in full spate, with the normal ford impassible. I suggested walking up the hill to find another crossing but had to stop where it thundered out from under a snow field. The bearded one, lets call him Steve, wanted to cross the snow, until I pointed out the penalty for going through a rotten snow bridge, into the burn was certain death. It wasn't worth it. Instead, we retraced our steps to where the burn spread out and entered Loch Avon and splashed through the shallows there. As we looked at the ground any thought of camping was finally abandoned. Every flat spot was under water which gurgled and burbled from every crack and orifice. A night under the Shelter Stone seemed suddenly appealing.
Comfort is always relative and initially, just to get out of the wind and rain was comfort enough. As our eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, however, we could see that our accommodation was damp, dark and scattered with rubbish. Steve's friend, I'll call him Dave, immediately crawled into his sleeping bag at the back of the cave. He was not happy. I couldn't help quizzing Steve about his red air horn.
"I carry it in case we get lost. It's very loud."
They'd camped near the summit of Cairngorm in wet and windy conditions. His pall had been on the windward side of the tent and the rain had sprayed through and soaked everything he had. They hadn't slept a wink.
I was cooking up rice and tins of beef chili for our meal while Steve lit his petrol stove, pulled out a bag of flour and began making chapattis. I'd never seen anyone doing this before, especially under a boulder. He was a vegetarian and appalled at our diet. He didn't actually say that we were 'polluting our temples' but that's what he meant. As a greasy omnivore I defended myself as best I could and one of the usual arguments ensued between meat eaters and vegetarians, too boring to relate here. His feelings were deeply felt, for the more agitated he became the quicker his hands flew, working the chapattis, which incidentally, were delicious. His ideal was a world where everyone lived off the food they grew on their own land.
"Have you got a bit of land?" I asked.
"No!"
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| Making chapattis under a boulder Pencil and watercolour |
After eating I pulled out the whisky and offered everyone a dram. Dave seemed to cheer up a little and actually smiled, before returning to his slumbers.
In the increasing darkness, illuminated by a flickering candle, Steve told us a story from his life. He was married and lived in a town in the English Midlands. One day his wife went out and never came back. Her parents grew concerned and contacted the police. He was taken in and interrogated, but released. One day the police descended on his house with a warrant and started ripping up the floorboards, then dug up the garden. They found nothing. With no evidence of a crime he was never charged. One day he was walking up the street when he bumped into two of the detectives that had been involved in the case. Harsh words were exchanged and then punches. They gave him a good kicking and left him lying on the pavement. After this he decided to put as much distance as he could between himself and his past and flitted to Orkney. Now you may ask, was I not concerned about spending a night with someone who may have been a murderer? In the circumstances his story was like a sad ballad from a distant land and anyway, I was too busy just trying to keep warm.
My sleeping position was next to the entrance and a howling gale blew in. The polythene that someone had rigged as a door was flapping about and useless so I stuffed a couple of rucksacks in the gap to cut out the draught. Then, as it grew totally dark we were disturbed by loud rustlings and rummaging as a regiment of mice moved in, trying to carry off Steve's chapatti flour. Intermittent hostilities continued for a couple of hours, until they grew tired of the game and marched off with band playing.
It would be nice to relate that the dawn was bright and clear, but when we looked out the wind was even stronger and the rain lashed down. Neither Ronnie or I had the stomach to traverse the high tops in these conditions, so implemented Plan B. Leaving the others still sleeping we headed for Ryvoan bothy by crossing the Saddle and sloshing down gloomy Strata Nethy.
About lunch time we arrived at Bynack Stable, an old corrugated shed with a stall for a pony. It was great to get out of the weather and we soon had the Primus going. Another walker arrived, then another and another. We were standing chatting and passing round biscuits when a big, fit looking guy with an enormous rucksack barged in. It's amazing how much you can learn about complete strangers in these situations. Apparently he'd divorced six years ago and since then walked across Scotland six times and run thirty six marathons. I was impressed.
"Here, have a nice cup of tea. It may help calm you down a bit."
