(penned, Sept.’07 after watching Aberdeen play in Europe)
I see it was snowing at Pittodrie tonight. The north east can be snell, not that the team from Moscow would have worried, should be used to that by now. Mind you I don't think many of their team will have spent many winters in Moscow.
It can get cold in Scotland and as I watched the game, my mind drifted, it does a lot of that these days, to a very cold weekend some years ago in the mountains of Scotland.
A group of us set out one February to climb the 1130 metres that is Creag Meagaidh. A big lump of mountain with complicated topography, sighted between Spean Bridge and Newtonmore. It was a lovely day when we set out. Strands of whispy mist in the valleys with a bright winter sun negotiating with the clouds over who should reign supreme that day. The cloud won that day’s argument, although the compromise left us with a bright glow for a time. A last minute decision saw us attack the mountain directly from the south across Moy Forest. We were heading for Moy Corrie, a beautiful bowl of 250 metre high cliffs, surrounding and protecting a lovely lochan, nestling cosily and secretly at about 800 metres.
The lochan shelters under the crook of the south shoulder of Meall Coire Choille–rais. It stays hidden from the gaze of all but soaring eagles until one enters the amphitheatre of cliffs and snow from its secret door on the east of the corrie, just at the outfall of Allt Coire Choille-rais, where it commences its twisting, tumbling cascade down the flank of the mountain as it rushes to replenish the waters of Loch Laggan a few hundred feet below. It was so quiet, so wonderful and in the trick of the light, brought about by the sun shining through the cloud onto snow plastered black beetling cliffs; it looked like a scene from a black and white film, the only colour coming from our clothing and gear. After a break and some fuel, we carefully pick our way over ice covered rocks to the far side of the lochan to seek what looked like an escape route onto the summit plateau.
There followed a slow trudge up a very steep snow and ice filled gulley in single file into the cloud, hoping the route we had chosen would lead where we needed it to. After about forty minutes or so we reached an overhanging cornice and our brave leader was given the task of breaking through. We followed like lemmings onto a cloud covered summit plateau and care was taken over our compass bearing to get us over to the cliffs on the north flank of the mountain where we would dig snow holes to stay overnight. At midnight, in a gale and in the pitch black, aided by our head torches, we summited. Then it was a dram and to bed. Sleeping in a snow hole is not like being in your own bed under a duvet; it is cold, but with the correct gear, just about bearable. Then there is getting up in the middle of the night to answer nature's call, but hey, that is another story.
Enjoy your duvet.
The lochan shelters under the crook of the south shoulder of Meall Coire Choille–rais. It stays hidden from the gaze of all but soaring eagles until one enters the amphitheatre of cliffs and snow from its secret door on the east of the corrie, just at the outfall of Allt Coire Choille-rais, where it commences its twisting, tumbling cascade down the flank of the mountain as it rushes to replenish the waters of Loch Laggan a few hundred feet below. It was so quiet, so wonderful and in the trick of the light, brought about by the sun shining through the cloud onto snow plastered black beetling cliffs; it looked like a scene from a black and white film, the only colour coming from our clothing and gear. After a break and some fuel, we carefully pick our way over ice covered rocks to the far side of the lochan to seek what looked like an escape route onto the summit plateau.
There followed a slow trudge up a very steep snow and ice filled gulley in single file into the cloud, hoping the route we had chosen would lead where we needed it to. After about forty minutes or so we reached an overhanging cornice and our brave leader was given the task of breaking through. We followed like lemmings onto a cloud covered summit plateau and care was taken over our compass bearing to get us over to the cliffs on the north flank of the mountain where we would dig snow holes to stay overnight. At midnight, in a gale and in the pitch black, aided by our head torches, we summited. Then it was a dram and to bed. Sleeping in a snow hole is not like being in your own bed under a duvet; it is cold, but with the correct gear, just about bearable. Then there is getting up in the middle of the night to answer nature's call, but hey, that is another story.
Enjoy your duvet.
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