Just Another Mountain

by Sarah Jane Douglas

  Camp II – 18,000 feet 22 April

  Dear Sara and Henry,

  Many thanks for your letter – most welcome. First and foremost, delighted to hear of Katherine’s arrival; my congratulations to you both – great news! Yes, despite too many godchildren already, I am most happy to accept but June may be a v difficult month for me. Apparently we have now reached the most difficult part of the climb. Expedition is far too large as I mentioned to you before I left UK. I hope your Everest Log Plan reduces members!

  As ever, Gerry

  Weird! Of course June would be a bit tricky for him – he was getting married to my mother! Confusion bubbled again. Why was their marriage such a big secret? With not much time left available before my late-afternoon flight I had to be swift with my photocopying. I’d tidied up by the time Sara and Henry returned and was making some last copies in Henry’s office when he came in and rummaged around in a cupboard. ‘Here, I’ll loan you my Royal Geographic Map of the Everest Region. It should come in handy, you’ll be able to gauge the route your trek will take in more detail – always better to know where you are going even if you don’t know what you will encounter on the way.’ I thanked him.

  I had gone to Cambridge hoping to learn more about the man my mum loved, the man who would have brought me up and, according to my Aunt Penny, had vowed to look after me and love me like I was his very own. But while I took away some answers, I had also found more questions.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  History Repeats Itself

  Fisherfield, July 2013

  July 2013 was hot. The group of Fisherfield Munros, located in Wester Ross, were fairly remote, but I’d been keen to go camping there for some time. Heaving on 40lb rucksacks, Paul and I set off along Loch Maree. It was afternoon; the dry heat was already intense and as wearing as the clegs – pellet-shaped flying insects whose vicious bites kept drawing blood from the bare skin of my arms and legs. They were driving me nuts. We beat our way through high sections of tall bracken on the narrow trail, trying not to trip over protruding rocks and tree roots. It took us an hour before we reached a bridge that signalled the long haul up Gleann Bianasdail. A series of stunning waterfalls had carved the rock into square, flat platforms, and water cascaded over the edges like the veils of a thousand brides.

  Deep into the glen we were hemmed in by the secluded valley walls, and, struggling with the weight of our heavy packs, our march had slowed to a plod as we baked in the heat. Loch Fada finally came into view, but any hopes that we were nearly there were seriously misjudged. Still, it was only three and a half hours after leaving the car at Incheril when I finally plonked my backpack down on the shingle beach at the loch’s head. It didn’t rest there long. There was barely enough time to appreciate the beauty before it was spoilt by the entire Fisherfield contingent of clegs and midges on their search-and-destroy mission; the place was alive with them, and I danced and swatted in an attempt to fend them off. Throwing the tent up at breakneck speed, we flung our packs, and ourselves, into the insect-free zone.

  At six o’clock we left the sanctuary of the tent for our evening hike up to the summits of A’ Mhaighdean and Ruadh Stac Mor, hoping that our winged foes were in abeyance. We trudged along over uneven, rough and boggy terrain, the heathers scratching around our ankles. While it was still light I took bearings from landmarks we picked out – the nipple on top of a hillock, the right-hand side of two rounded lumps on higher ground, and so on. I was pretty good at this map-reading stuff now. Slioch was reflected in the loch, and as we climbed higher more Torridonian giants soared into view. Day was fading. Quietness instilled a perfect peace and I paused to watch two young deer silhouetted on the ridgeline. Absorbed by the task of climbing uphill over the rough heathers, I got quite a fright when the head of a stranger, popping up over the top of a tent, suddenly came to view. I was disappointed that we didn’t have the peak to ourselves so Paul and I pressed on towards the second Munro.

  As we walked along the ridge the sun’s rays washed the surrounding land and mountains in glorious colour. Dubh Loch and Fionn Loch glittered like swathes of silver ribbon far below. Ahead the red-sandstone cliffs of Ruadh Stac Mor were set aglow in a salmon pink. In the near distance An Teallach resembled a fortress, with beetling crags and a ragged ridge that punctured the skyline like scores of broken glass bottles. Atmospheric conditions created blocks of colour that made the complex architecture of the mountain scenery look almost two-dimensional. The night was intoxicating, and I was definitely in love.

  Though we had been discreet, Paul and I couldn’t hide our relationship from my children for ever. As expected, my youngest son hadn’t taken the news so well.

  ‘You said you wouldn’t have him for a boyfriend. You lied to me!’ he cried. His distress struck a chord. I’d put off telling my boys about the relationship because I’d wanted them to get used to having Paul around, to get to know and like him more and to protect their feelings – probably the same reasons why my mother had kept quiet about Frank; she had wanted me to accept him in my own time.

  ‘Leon, I’m sorry,’ I’d said gently, ‘things changed.’

  ‘Why couldn’t you just stay friends?’

  ‘I suppose because we spent more time together. I trust him. He has shown us all kindness and has given all of us help whenever we’ve needed it – how many times has he come to catch spiders?’ I asked. But my attempt to raise a smile was met with a scowl. I realised that whether I’d been honest about Paul or not, the outcome remained the same. Just as I had vied for my mother’s attention, my son sought mine. It seemed I couldn’t stop history repeating itself.

  The trail began to thread its way up through cliffs, steeply in places, over loose sandstone screes. I enjoyed the easy scrambling to reach the second summit. I pulled on my down jacket, yanked on some leggings and took the squashed roll and can of Jack Daniels from my backpack. As I sat on a summit rock, warm air caressed my face and dusky pinks and mellowing violets coloured the sky, casting warmth onto the mountains. I found it hard to believe that these towering bastions, with their shattered spires and jaggy ridges like filed teeth, could be such hostile environments and the takers of life. Soaking in the beauty, I thought about Gerry, Mum, my grandparents and my children. And I thought about the future. Paul and I talked.

  ‘I know things are a bit tricky with Leon, but if we love each other enough we can ride the storm, can’t we?’ I said.

  ‘Sarah, I love you and I always will. I waited so long for you, I’m not going to stop now.’ Paul’s answer was everything I needed to know.

  ‘So, what do you think about me going to Nepal? Will you miss me?’

  ‘Yeah, course I’ll miss you. But it’s a big deal for you and it’s what you need to do, isn’t it? Anyway, you’ll only be away for a month.’

  ‘Well. I was wondering if maybe you would want to come with me. What do you think?’

  ‘Do you want me to?’ he asked with surprise.

  I could tell he was touched that I’d asked. That was what I also loved about him; he was so unassuming. We toasted our celebration with a tinny clunk of our Jack Daniels and watched the sun as it set. For the first time in my life I hadn’t rushed in, and, in spite of all my imperfections, I knew I was truly loved.

  At ten-thirty it was time to descend. Returning in the dark was in some ways easier than walking during daylight. We had to rely on the bearing I took and walk on it faithfully, whereas in daylight, although I use my map and compass, I’m also observing the lie of the land, trying to pick out an easier line. Of course night walking was not without its pitfalls. All was going well until I lost my left and then my right foot into ankle-deep bog, but silvery moonlight reflecting in a small lochan nearby lifted my spirits and that, combined with our earlier conversation, made the night feel enchanting as we squelched blindly on. I tried to avoid further soakings as blisters gnawed, my feet rubbing in wet socks against my boots. But no amount of discomfort could spoil my contented mood. At two in
the morning we were back in the tent eating the last of our pasta, and more than ready for sleep.

  Paul and I woke up gulping for air. Though it was only seven in the morning the sun’s heat was already burning through the thin nylon tent fabric. It was suffocating, but I didn’t dare unzip the flap when I saw the tens of thousands of black, pinhead-sized bodies splattered against the green outer shell. Desperate for air, I opened the inner flap, squashing my mouth and nose against the midge net. A few gentle wafts of air off the loch gave momentary relief, but the stifling heat became torturous. Packing up swiftly, we braced ourselves for the apocalyptic attack as we emerged from the tent . . . and right on cue the dancing and swatting routine began. A calm scene by comparison, Slioch was mirrored in minute detail in Loch Fada as waters lapped idly against the shingle with neither a whisper of wind nor a cloud in the sky.

  We left the tent and made our way across boggy ground and scratchy shrubs. Jumping over squelchy, dark-brown hag onto dried yellow sprigs of grasses, we made a direct line to the south ridge of our first Munro. Once we gained its lower section we had to pick a way across an expanse of glacially exposed flat rock. Too much sun, tiredness and not having eaten was making me feel sick and, remembering my previous experience, I had to stop and force some food down. After ten minutes we pressed on slowly, conserving energy – trying not to perspire too much. My feet, in their wet accommodation, were already in pain.

  A footpath took us the rest of the way to the summit and we ate an early lunch in what little shade there was. My bread was difficult to swallow. It felt dry and rough as it passed slowly down my gullet. It was only eleven and the worst of the heat was to come, but superb views to An Teallach and the full Fisherfield horseshoe compensated for my minor physical difficulties. And because John Peacock had told me that these mountains were a favourite haunt of Gerry’s, they held more meaning for me.

  As Paul and I walked down the wide, grassy ridge we saw folk camped out on the col below. More people were making their way up lower slopes from Loch Fada. The hills were busy.

  ‘John Peacock told me that back in the 1950s his friend Mike O’Hara was the first man to have completed the three peaks, Ben Nevis, Scafell Pike and Snowdon, in under twenty-four hours. And apparently Mike loved climbing here too. There were no paths or Munro-baggers back then,’ I continued. ‘It must have been exciting to explore these hills; that’s real adventure, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s too easy today. There’s all those online sites with their free route descriptions and maps to download,’ Paul said.

  ‘I wish I’d been an explorer.’

  ‘Being with you is a daily adventure. I doubt I could take much more excitement,’ Paul joked, and I gave him a shove, pretending to be put out. I was so happy. Respite from the sun’s infernal blaze as we walked in the shadow of Meall Garbh increased my pleasure, and as luck would have it a nice, fat cloud lazily pulled across the sky, blocking those violent rays for most of the battle up the ridge to our second summit of the day.

  I felt like the little mermaid. My fiery feet were in tatters as I relieved them of their Gore-Tex prisons to totter across the summit stones. My vest was soaked, so I peeled it off too and sat in my bra and skirt at the cairn. I eyed up Sgurr Ban. Our third peak lay just over one kilometre away.

  ‘We’re running low on everything, Sarah. There’s hardly any water left and this heat’s a killer. I know you won’t want to, but I think we should abandon it,’ Paul said.

  It was hard to turn my back on that last summit.

  ‘The hill isn’t going anywhere. We can come back and do it another day. We’ve still gotta get down and dismantle the tent, and that’s before the long walk out too. The boys have school tomorrow and you don’t want to be too late to pick them up from their grandparents,’ he added. Paul was right. I was all gung-ho and that’s how accidents happen, and he was the voice of reason, a calming influence: he was the yin to my yang.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Dark Horse

  The Inaccessible Pinnacle, September 2013

  Crepuscular light filtered through the sky at about quarter past seven as we sped along the road towards Skye. The Glen Shiel Mountains made a good barrier against the rising sun and created a stunning silhouette, but we were off to climb the hardest mountain summit to reach on the British Isles, the Inaccessible Pinnacle, or In Pinn. To tackle the In Pinn we had needed to learn some basic rock climbing, so we’d taken a weekend course near Betws-y-Coed. The same skills could have been taught closer to home, but because I’d discovered, through correspondence with another contact of Gerry’s, that he had enjoyed climbing in Snowdonia I’d decided it was there that Paul, Marcus, Leon and I would take our instruction. We were kitted out with equipment – harnesses, climbing shoes and the like – then it was off to Plas y Brenin and the Pinnacles to be shown the basics of rock climbing. After a morning of instruction, learning how to tie on, make figure-of-eight knots, use safety anchors and abseil, we tackled a couple of climbs on a large slab of rock, whose cracks ran like tramlines in criss-cross patterns, at Little Tryfan. The day had been absorbing, but it was about to get more interesting. We were off to Llangollen, to meet Gerry’s cousins, Rod and Jill.

  Through initial contact with the Ministry of Defence my email address had finally trickled down the line to Rod Owens. I was ecstatic when he got in touch. Members of my family hadn’t been able to shed light on why Gerry might not have broadcast his wedding plans, and it was still bothering me. Uncle David’s impression at the time was that Gerry’s parents had been unhappy about him marrying my mother because she had a child, and that they threatened to cut him off if he went ahead with the wedding. Aunt Penny, though, had told me that she didn’t think Gerry’s parents were alive. She thought that he had been brought up either by an aunt or by a foster mother. Uncle Jimmy knew no more than Uncle David. It was a muddle of information that made Gerry and his life an enigma. But now I was in a position to ask about family, and I had to hope that Rod would provide the answers I was looking for.

  Arriving at the bistro in Llangollen ahead of Rod and Jill, we had time to order a drink. I felt nervous. There was no mistaking Rod when he walked in. His handsome, angular features resembled my own memories and the photos of Gerry. His eyes and smile were similar too. Both he and Jill were pleasant and easy company, but it transpired that Rod knew very little about Gerry himself, and Jill had never even met him!

  ‘I’m afraid I know nothing of the relationship between your mother and my cousin,’ he said.

  Not even his family knew he was getting married! My heart sank to the pit of my stomach.

  ‘What about his parents? Do you know anything about them?’ I asked.

  ‘His father was killed in action in North Africa when he was thirty-six. His grave is out there,’ said Rod, sifting through photographs to show me a picture of the headstone. ‘Gerry’s mother, Edith, didn’t cope with his death. She had a breakdown and was, unfortunately, institutionalised. Gerry, his two brothers and two sisters were split up and sent off to different people to be looked after, but the brothers then attended Duke of York’s Military School, before Gerry then went on to Sandhurst. He kept contact with his two sisters, Jean and Bernice, possibly more than he did with the brothers.’

  ‘Is anyone in touch with the brothers and sisters?’

  ‘The older brother is dead, and the other brother lost touch with the family of his own volition. It would be impossible to track him down. I really don’t know if anyone’s in touch with the sisters, but I’ll do my best to find out,’ Rod said.

  Three hours had been a long time for Marcus and Leon to sit quietly, but our evening had finally come to an end. Apart from one swift kick Leon had given his brother under the table that had gone unnoticed by all except me, the boys had been on their best behaviour and I was proud of them.

  ‘Your boys are so well behaved, they’re a credit to you,’ Jill said, smiling at them.

  Agreeing to send on c
opies of pictures, we said our goodbyes and promised to keep in touch. I felt we would, just as Gerry’s old climbing partner Henry Day and I had maintained contact – we’d corresponded regularly since our first meeting and had arranged to see each other again, on the In Pinn on Skye.

  On the second day of our weekend course in Wales we’d gone to the Moelwyns, sixteen miles from Betws-y-Coed. Slate mines lined each side of the road: blue slate was quarried on the right, purple on the left. We pulled in at an already busy car park and walked up a trail to cliffs where a couple of ropes were at work. A cold wind gusted. Our guide, Dave, led Leon and me on a route called ‘Slick’, while Marcus and Paul had started a few minutes ahead of us with their instructor. Leon climbed second and I followed behind. He made me feel warm-hearted as he called out words of encouragement. Sharing our struggles and achievements today was helping to build an even closer bond with him, bridging the gap that had opened up when I’d started seeing Paul. Reaching Dave, who had us secured by a sling around a tree, I saw Marcus ahead. His body was wedged, feet against one wall, back against the other, as he wriggled his way up a narrow chimney – a fissure in the rock.

  ‘That looks tricky!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘You missed seeing Paul get up. It was a performance of brute force rather than technique!’ said Dave, then, turning to Leon, asked, ‘Shall we abseil back down from here? The chimney might be too difficult. What do you think?’

  ‘I want to try it!’ Leon exclaimed, not to be outdone by his older brother, as he scrabbled and struggled up the chimney. Seeing him succeed filled me with pride – and also gave me a nudge of confidence that I could do it too. After one final pitch – as the section of climb between two fixed points is known – we were at the top of the 100-metre crag.