Agitated is how I feel when I can’t get out onto the hills. I find it unbearable therefore I am unbearable and a bit of a nightmare to live with for most of January and February (though my partner Paul may argue I’m a pain most of the year round).
I swear the skin on the tips of my forefinger and thumb have virtually worn away from the constant swiping as I check and re-check forecast updates. One storm system after the other has swept in over Scotland from the Atlantic. Conditions on the mountains have been fairly grim, and safety warnings posted in abundance. The weather is even making headline news on TV. But it’s not just high winds that have been horrendous. I injured my lower rib a couple of weeks ago when I launched myself onto my shopping trolley in Tesco for a giant freewheel down the length of the store. The pain feels like our recent weather, extreme. That combined with discomfort in my bad ankle is just another reason for my not getting out to the hills misery.
While Storms Dudley and Eunice battered England with record breaking winds, snow was being dumped heavily across the Scottish mountains – and long range forecasts continue to predict an unsettled Atlantic weather pattern, with sustained upland gales for the foreseeable. But then, from almost out of nowhere, as though a fairy godmother waved her magical wand, a weather window appeared – but, just for one day mind and it came with warnings. ‘Get down from the hills before late,’ the weatherman said, ‘because by evening it’s back to business as usual.’ Sore ribs, a dodgy ankle and sizeable drifts to contend with or not, the die was cast.
Paul drives us to Lynwilg the following morning to a wee Corbett there that I’d yet to do. Geal-charn Mor is accessed just off the A9 and is a reasonable choice of hill given the circumstances. With snow and ice at low levels many back roads to other more isolated hills would have been treacherous to get to; Paul hadn’t been out on the mountains since last August, so wasn’t entirely fit; and my ribs are still mending. ‘Conditions over ambitions,’ I mutter, rationalising with my other gung ho self who saw a good day and wanted more from it.
Other people’s footprints going up the track made progress marginally easier, but the snow was deep in places and very soft, so it wasn’t long before Paul was peeling off layers. I looked ahead at the pristine scene.
Next we did what you shouldn’t necessarily do on a hill – we followed a small group of people who were up ahead. They were travelling west, aiming straight for the summit. It didn’t take long to realise a direct line was not for us because, unlike them, we didn’t have the benefit of snow shoes, or skis with skins to glide us over the heathery slopes. Sinking deeply with every step we cut back across to where the track ought to be and the going slightly less arduous. Paul called to me. He’d sunk crotch deep into the snow. ‘I can’t get out!’ he exclaimed. Naturally I shouted back words of encouragement.
‘Course you can!’ I yelled, as I watched him roll and claw his way to freedom (I swear to God I wasn’t laughing, not out loud anyway). The going became a little firmer underfoot, but Paul shouted out again.
‘If the top’s much further I’m turning round. My hip hurts.’ I promised him the peak was only a few hundred meters more. He didn’t buckle and, not much longer after walking over the top of the buried fence and gate, we reached the summit cairn. Poor Paul was suffering, but he’d have fared a lot worse had I not brought something for lunch, and a hot drink for us both. I’d told him to eat breakfast before setting out, but he had not. And neither did he think he’d need anything to eat on the hill. ‘I’m just taking water,’ he’d announced. It was a mistake I’d made myself in the past so couldn’t really slag him for it. Anyway, he wasn’t the only one hurting. My left ankle was now gnawing away.
Views from the summit were terrific but, as Paul said, mainly because of the snow. Caringorms one way, Ben Wyvis the opposite and the Monadhliaths the other. I absorbed the Arctic-like, wind sculpted landscape; the summit plateau a vast ocean of waves frozen in motion, and the surrounding peaks all shapely like Saharan sand dunes that had been airbrushed white. It was freezing. Well into the minuses Paul reckoned. I was thinking how glad I was that there was barely a breath of wind to bring the temperature down, when it occurred to me how utterly still everything seemed. Above my head was an empty, noiseless sky. No helicopter flying about on a rescue mission today, not here anyway. My ankle gnaws. And my eyes search in the direction of those mountains, Stob Coire Sgriodain and Chno Dearg, which lie southwest of the Monadhliath range. I can see, hear and feel it all over again; the sight of the helicopter lowering into position, its powerful blades rupturing the airflow and thrusting icy spindrift into my face, and the sense of fear that the powerful updraft would send me sliding further down the slope.
It was ten years ago, on the last day of January, when I’d had a bit of an epic on Stob Coire Sgriodain. It had all happened in a flash. One minute I was traversing a snowy gully, the next I’d lost my footing and was sliding at a rate of knots down the steep slope. I’d clocked rocks below and did something else you should definitely never do on a hill, I used my crampon as a brake . . . very effectively actually . . . if only my body hadn’t hurtled on regardless . . . I saw my foot bend outward at ninety degrees and was certain it shouldn’t be able to do that. As I came to a grinding halt with a mouth full of snow I knew immediately I wouldn’t be able to get up onto my feet, let alone attempt to walk. I imagined having to drag myself out on my elbows. I didn’t like the idea, so Lochaber Mountain Rescue Team was called. I didn’t know it at the time, not only had the helicopter been sent, but a team of 28 had also been mobilised and were making their way to me over land – a huge turn-out made on my behalf. On seeing the helicopter I remember thinking two things, ‘Thank God for mountain rescue,’ and ‘Man, I hope my ankle is broken and not just badly sprained.’ I didn’t like the thought of the rescue volunteers going to all this trouble for nothing – and also, I had a fair idea of how expensive a rescue could be (approx £2,500). I will forever feel a huge debt of gratitude, not just to LMRT, but to all the guys and gals involved in mountain rescue. They are incredible.
At Belford hospital my boot had been removed so x-rays could be done, and my trousers were taken off too (so my leg could be plastered). The hospital staff gathered around my bed started sniggering and giggling. I didn’t find anything funny. But because of all the drama (and the morphine) I’d quite forgotten what I had on under my walking gear. It was only when the doctor chuckled, ‘Is that what you hillwalkers wear these days?’ that I looked down to see my sparkly, silver sequin dress. (In my defence I’d had it on – albeit prematurely – in celebration of the day’s hills bringing my Munro tally to 150.) Someone took a photo.
After a few lengthy, painful and unsuccessful attempts to manipulate things back into position I was sent home with the instruction to go to Raigmore hospital in Inverness the following morning. Two days later I was the proud owner of a new titanium ankle (sounds more impressive than a plate and a few screws).
Standing on the top of Geal-charn Mor I now turn to face snow clad Ben Wyvis – it’s Inverness’s Munro, and seeing it always makes me think of home. I’m looking out across a familiar landscape rich both in memories and lessons learned along the way. Paul is on his feet now and passes the flask. He takes photos, and I enjoy the sensation as my share of the hot drink makes its way down into my core. So much has happened in the last ten years since I broke my ankle. I’m quite good at breaking my bones, especially these days, I think. Aging may have something to do with it, but mostly I blame breast cancer – the chemotherapy and radiotherapy I underwent. It’s a true fact these treatments lead to bone loss and increase the risk of fractures. I’m sad that I obviously can’t go throwing myself onto shopping trolleys anymore, but as long as I can still get out and enjoy the mountains then all is well in the world.
Paul and I make our way down off the hill and I stop to absorb the natural beauty around me once more. It’s been a perfect day. I’d done such a lot of complaining about the weather up till now, but that’s okay, it’s nice to have something normal to moan about. I feel happy and reset. And Paul is happy too, because I won’t be so unbearable to be around . . . for now.