I've been warned by some that I shouldn't write about this escapade, or that if I did, I wasn't to reveal the person's name, since (they claim) publication of this event would bring shame to his name. However, other people, clearly wanting revenge for some unforgotten harm suffered at the hands of this guy, have urged me to tell the tale and even to embellish the truth of it as a lesson to all. Being an honest man, and knowing that the name Tom Bridgeland needs no more disrepute (I may be a CUMC initiate, but even the words Swanage and Bonatti Pillar [see Journal 1993 - Ed] ring alarm bells) I'll tell my tale as I saw it, one icy-cold weekend in February, '95.
The path up to the CIC hut at the foot of Ben Nevis often feels long enough, and by one o'clock in the morning, with trousers frozen stiff as sheet aluminium from the knee down following a soaking they received due to a rather unsuccessful attempt at crossing the Allt a'Mhuilinn, I was ready to stop. Ben and Sarah, in whose car we'd come up, were quick to find the only sheltered spot for a tent, behind the stone walls of the hut. A quick sniff in that vicinity soon told me and Tom that we'd prefer a hurricane to that stench of human excrement, so we scooted off to find our site. Now, all we wanted to do was get the tent up and sleep, but no way were the pegs going to go into that frozen and stony ground that night. Nearby, a level patch of snow beckoned. I guess I already knew this, but that night certainly confirmed it: sleeping on snow, however flat and inviting it may appear, and however uneven the surrounding ground, is just not worth it. All night long the tent vibrated with Tom's shivering, and I spent it trying to keep as many parts of my body as possible off the frigid ground. To be fair, apart from his regular oscillation, Tom actually seemed remarkably impervious to the conditions - something that amazed me when I saw the width of his shredded karrimat (which believe me was not much more than its thickness).
The next morning saw no crack of dawn start, but finally Ben and Sarah disappeared up Observatory Gully to find Tower Scoop, while me and Tom went up Coire Na Ciste. I don't remember a decision being made, but somehow we found ourselves at the foot of a long couloir leading to a chimney below Tower Gap on Tower Ridge. This then was Glover's Chimney, a brilliant route which soon had Tom tackling the chimney, the crux and last pitch. As I stood holding the rope and admiring the beautifully clear view (I was later assured that this was a freak meteorological occurrence and that for a first climb on the Ben, who usually lives in complete white-out, this was sheer luck) I could vaguely hear Tom mumbling something about it all being a bit thin. Later, as my crampons scraped around on the smooth, steep rock of the chimney, the front points desperately looking for some verglass to bite, I would have said that even 'thin' was not the word. But what a chimney! And what a gale that greeted us as we topped out in Tower Gap. I didn't envy the two people we then met who'd been benighted on Tower Ridge, and was only too happy to head sharp-like up the last part of the ridge for the summit.
At some stage I remember looking back and seeing Tom's grinning face, enjoying the position with its amazing views. Suddenly, as he was front pointing up practically the final slope, just taking .html step, I saw a distinctly boot-like spiky and purpley thing make a beautiful parabolic flight down the mountain, following a line very similar to the one we'd come up. I double-take, and see Tom peer down at his now boot-less right foot. Great!, I think, but it's obviously not what young Tom thinks. His grin has become a wide chasm, and roars of laughter resound around the mountain. Nice one, Tom - just what we do on mountains. But I'll get the last laugh I think as I picture the last steep slope we've yet to climb and then the descent back to the tent. But completely undeterred (an attitude I can only ascribe to his previous experiences watching various bits of his kit disappear into space), Tom sets off as best he can with a resolve to reach our tent as fast as possible.
We didn't hang around long on the summit - a pity really, since the Cuillins on Skye were visible - because, though he never mentioned it, I'm sure Tom's foot was quickly remembering the frostbite it had received only two months previously in the Alps. But I had an amusing descent down No. 4 Gully, watching Tom's new step-and-hop technique...
Amazingly, the boot ( with the crampons lying neatly beside it) was found by a party of climbers, who took it down to the police station in Fort William. Tom's only loss was the next day's climbing: while me and Ben vanished into Ben Nevis' more traditional weather to go up Gardyloo Gully, Tom hobbled back down to Fort William, accompanied by an unfortunately rather ill Sarah. So - I think I see where Tom's reputation comes from, and though I mean no slander by this, judging by his record it obviously doesn't really matter that two hours after remarking that your boot feels loose you still haven't checked your laces.
Post script. After four years in the club, Tom may be leaving Cambridge for the delights of Edinburgh. Of course, he's not the only one who will be leaving, but he's the one with whom I spent some really amazing weekends in Scotland this winter, when life in Cambridge had lost its relevancy. I'd just like to say what good times we had together in the club and that, though none of you know it, it is because of your assurances that Cambridge gets better after the first year' that I'm still here.