NICK Estcourt is one of the better known products of the C.U.M.C., so when he visits us on the pretext of having been to the Himalayas with a camera round his neck, he merits a welcome fit for any celebrated personality. Careful preparations are made; foul-tasting sherry, a heater to produce a warm atmosphere of cliqueyness; all courtesy of the general public. Graduating from P.l, people drift to the Eros and then to the more liquid comforts of a pub. Whisky, beer and smoke, swallowed for the sake of images, induce a euphoria of carelessness as the lecture becomes a hazy hour of rain and snow, blue and white, but predominantly of some sod attacking my head with a hammer.
Supping ale in the Bun Shop, my silent reminiscences are broken as somebody drags me into a car heading north to the Ben. Visions of the icy clutches of Scotland skate across my thoughts, the greedy gullies waiting to swallow the unwary and spew them out in a bloody, mangled heap in the lower corries. Crampons and hammers rattle rhythmically over bumps, and my body blissfully slips into unconsciousness, a sense of impending doom lurking in the corners of my mind. The rest of the party feel buoyed up by the tense expectancy of physical hardship and cold.
Sleep is a welcome relief as Newark disappears into the darkness. But awareness is not so welcome when a stroppy copper inquires as to whether our perverted antics of the last few weeks included the murder of a sixteen-year-old girl. Satisfied that our tents are not bodies, he waves us away, and my mind wanders aimlessly over girls, caressing their limbs and eventually exploding in a scream as the car halts at a cafe. Coffee at four in the morning dissipates some of the pain but the everpresent ashtray in my mouth overcomes the warmth and leaves me choking down yesterday’s meals. Crawling into a pub in Fort William sensibility returns, and with it a growing sense of excitement as snow covered slopes promise good conditions. A wasted day of drink and smoke terminates in an exhausted collapse somewhere in the boggy heather of the walk-in.
The meandering odour of breakfast stirs the nerves, poking messages at my nose and mouth, which open to be filled with sausages and eggs. Coffee follows coffee and bog follows bog; I smoke a fag while the others arrive. Gear is produced, we split up, and set off. The tenseness of stomach muscles brought on by the sight of ice-filled gullies and snow-covered buttresses is driven away by the aches and numbness of tired limbs. The mist curls over the edge of the plateau undecided in its direction, and then plunges down the precipices, slivers of whiteness touch our heads, overcome visibility, and leave us in a blankness overpowering in its completeness. A landmark seems familiar from previous visits and a tortuous but safe route deposits us at the foot of a shallow depression in the rocks. Filled with easy angled snow, we run up it, laughing with enjoyment, and collapse in a shallow cave.
"An ice pitch," moans Chas, looking ahead while I cough up a year of cigarettes and idleness onto the beautiful unbroken snow. I lead off, thankfully running out of rope as I touch ice.
Chas floats past me on a cushion of nothingness and disappears into the mist, hammer swinging and feet dancing on the ice
I’m buried under spindrift as he throws down all the snow that ever existed. It creeps under my hats, into my shirt, melting to trickle icely down to my boots, where it acknowledges submission and transforms into warm water. My belay disappears as Chas pulls our only deadboy up and security goes with it. At last the rope is tight and I crawl over bare rock, tool scraping uselessly on the unyielding mountain.
I pass my partner and all worries disappear as I concentrate solely on climbing. Pushing a screw in for useless psychological protection, I edge my way up. A final pull over an apparently overhanging bulge and I collapse. Fag after fag soothes my nerves as Chas first follows, then leads me up the last easy pitches. Safety arrives at the horizontal plateau, a hilarious semi-glissade to the hut, a long trek down to the tent, endless brews and finally the Jacobite.
Tongues of fire lick the water off my breeches and I sink into a stupor. Hours pass by and an eternity of sleep becomes finite. Eyes open, familiar shapes reorientate the brain, bringing me home in a car full of music and warmth, to bed and inevitably work.