Just Another Mountain

by Sarah Jane Douglas

  Leon watched with Paul and Marcus as Dave and I climbed one more route. When the rope stopped sliding through my hands I knew that Dave was either putting in an anchor to make himself safe or there was a trickier section of rock to climb. I was tied onto Dave, but he had disappeared from view and the rope had almost paid out. It felt strange standing alone on the narrow, rocky shelf so high above ground. As my hands gripped the wall I wondered if this route might have been one that Gerry had done and I tried to imagine how it would have felt to be climbing with him.

  ‘That’s me!’ Dave called, interrupting my thoughts. Up I went. ‘That was fast!’ he exclaimed, as my head appeared over the rock. At the top of the crag Dave showed me how to coil ropes correctly to carry them. ‘You should be quite pleased with yourselves. Those climbs we did are classed as a very difficult and a severe 4a*.’ I didn’t really know what that meant, but if he was pleased then I was delighted.

  With our rock-climbing weekend over, we had one more visit left to make before leaving Wales.

  When I’d returned from the weekend in Cambridge with Henry and Sara I’d had mixed emotions but wasted no time in trying to find more contacts from Gerry’s past. Determined that there was someone somewhere who knew of his relationship with my mother, I needed reassurance. If I was going to take her ashes all the way to Nepal then I had to be 100 per cent sure that Gerry had truly loved her too – there could be no doubt. I looked out letters from the little black case written to Mum by my grandfather, searching for any kind of clue at all. Though it felt like clutching at straws, it was, all the same, a comfort to read his words. Hearing Grandad’s voice in my head as I read the letter, I did find something worth going on:

  Mum told me you had got the photographs of Gerry, so Ian Leigh must have dropped them in. He got them from a Dr Jones in Canada, who was on the Annapurna expedition with Gerry. He had promised to send them to Ian a long time ago and when he finally did the other day he said he would send duplicates to you if Ian thought you might like them. Ian accepted on your behalf and in the meantime gave you his copies.

  I got in touch with Henry, hopeful that he might have contact details for the men mentioned in the letter. Ian Leigh had died some years ago, but Henry passed on an email address for Dr Jones. I’d assumed that the doctor lived in Canada so was surprised, after sharing my rock-climbing plans with him, when he invited me, Paul and the boys to come for dinner – he and his wife lived forty minutes away from Betws-y-Coed. As Dr Jones said, it was serendipity indeed.

  Finding Dolfriog Lodge proved to be a task as tricky as our earlier climbs. We finally found the lodge, out in the sticks along more of the overgrown, single-track, twisting roads, hidden amid trees and luscious green foliage, built high on rock with a fast-flowing river below. The noise of the car in this remote place alerted Dr Jones and his wife to our arrival and they came out to greet us at the gate. Glenys was a character larger than life, and she bestowed a massive hug and kiss on each of us as her husband, David, after a warm handshake, ushered us into the house. While he tended to the roasting meat, Glenys regaled us with a little local history. The slow-cooked lamb in mint with new potatoes, carrots and broccoli was delicious. After dinner we at last got down to the business of Gerry.

  ‘We first became acquainted on the Annapurna expedition, you see. We just clicked,’ said David. ‘Gerry and I had been close. I considered us to be good friends. We remained in regular contact after Annapurna . . .’

  Glenys interjected, ‘I was very fond of Gerry. He and all the Annapurna climbers came to visit us for a reunion. I remember him saying, “I don’t know why I’m in the army, I’m a pacifist.”’ With that she erupted into laughter.

  ‘So, did you know about my mum and Gerry?’ I asked David.

  ‘I’m afraid I had no knowledge of their engagement. I didn’t even know there was a girl on the scene. But, you see, he was a very private person, a dark horse even among close friends. It was hard to know what went on in his mind.’

  By now I was getting used to these kinds of comments. Digging out an old address book, he scribbled down details of two contacts.

  ‘The address is for Cattie. She’s the wife of Andy Anderson; sadly he died several years ago, but he was a great friend of Gerry’s. I think Cattie will be the one most able to help you.’

  ‘Gimme another jelly sweet,’ I said. ‘Your driving’s making me feel sick.’

  ‘Sorry, but you told Henry we’d meet him at the memorial hut at eight. We’re running late,’ Paul answered.

  As the car took us over the brow of a hill and further into Glen Brittle, the Skye Cuillin ranged into view; on its tobacco-coloured cushion of empty moorland the ridge was a spiky crown in shadowy shades of blue and purple. Early-morning cloud wrapped around the ancient volcano’s base like a fine silk scarf. Henry greeted us at the memorial hut and then, laden with backpacks and ropes, we set off on the trail. I’d only been here once before, but everything was as I recalled it: the 25-metrehigh Eas Mor waterfall tumbling into the tree-filled gorge, the stony terrain and the sense of high adventure.

  Our route began on an obvious man-made track before it became rockier. There were plenty of cairns, which took a devious line beneath the crags of Sgurr Dearg. We could have followed these up into a gully, which would have put us on the ridge, but we went left onto screes that led to a gap in the line north of Sgurr Dearg. Paul topped out first.

  ‘Well, there it is,’ he said. His tone and the look on his face did not impart a sense of joy.

  I arrived at his side. ‘Ahhh,’ I said, in serious contemplation.

  ‘Mmm . . . okay,’ said Henry, as he appeared behind us.

  We dropped our kit and sat for a few minutes to enjoy views of the ridge extending east and west, and to Rum, one of the small isles of the Inner Hebrides, before Henry handed us a harness each. We descended slabby rock to the base of the In Pinn. We spotted someone on nearby Sgurr Mhic Choinnich, and closer still a woman in shorts and a vest, blonde hair scraped back in a ponytail; she was alone and moving fast. As I waited to climb I looked up at the blue sky. A raven, dark as night, with wings at full span circled up from behind the rock. Then another raven appeared, and another. I was watching their theatrical performance with fascination when into view came a whopping wingspan. Henry reckoned it was an immature golden eagle to whom the ravens were giving chase.

  Henry started up the east ridge of the Pinn, a moderate rock climb but incredibly exposed: a foot wide with ‘an overhanging and infinite drop on one side, and steeper and further on the other’, as one early mountaineer had described it. The rock climbing in Wales stood us in good stead for this.

  ‘Safe,’ Henry called, as he made the first of two pitches. I took him off belay and he pulled in the rope.

  ‘That’s me,’ cried Paul.

  ‘Climb!’ Henry shouted down to me.

  Off I went. Busy concentrating on finding foot- and handholds, I didn’t even think to look down. I was fine, though taking my time, when the lone, blonde-haired woman scrambled quickly up past me, unroped! I admired, and slightly envied, her bold and confident attitude. Parts of the rock felt smooth under my hands and fingers, no doubt worn down over the passage of time by countless climbers and Munroists. Making sure I had three points of contact, I pulled myself up, momentarily imagining what it might be like to come off and how unpleasant it would be to pendulum out and smash into solid rock, but I shook the thought from my mind. Before long I reached Henry and was soon perched behind him, safely clipped into the sling.

  The second pitch was initially steep but easy, and the abseil off was fun. Gathering in the rope, we returned to our earlier perch on high rock to eat lunch and watched as two guys began what we had just completed.

  I wished that my confidence in Gerry was as solid as the rock we’d been climbing over. The mystery surrounding his relationship with Mum remained unresolved, but having met his friends, in particular the cousins, made him feel less of a ghost, and there were
new leads.

  I wasn’t about to give up on anything.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Walking on Air

  Aonach Mor and Aonach Beag — the Big Ridge and the Little Ridge, April 2014

  Strong winds and blizzard conditions across the Scottish Highlands put paid to regular hillwalking over the winter months. By January I missed being on the mountains and was beginning to fret that there were only a few months left to get into good condition for the high-altitude trek in Nepal, but I built up my stamina by weight-training and running ten kilometres every day, and Paul just carried on working. He was fit anyway, going up and down ladders, digging like a slave and lifting heavy blocks. What bothered me more than our physical health was that I still hadn’t found any of Gerry’s friends who knew he had planned to be married. If I could hear what I wanted from just one person I’d feel vindicated in taking Mum’s ashes to him.

  I’d written to Cattie Anderson but, having heard nothing back, I’d given up on that lead. But then one day, in March, a reply arrived in the post. My heart sank at first, scanning the first three paragraphs, which seemed to suggest I’d drawn another blank, but I soon discovered how wrong I was as I read on:

  Andy left the Army in 1973 or 74 – he was scared they were going to send him to Ireland – but he continued to work as a civilian instructor and was expecting to be on the team for Everest in 1976. In 1975 he was appointed as an instructor at Glenmore Lodge, and I think that this is why he didn’t go to Nuptse. As it happened, he broke his leg quite seriously in a skiing accident and spent some time in Raigmore hospital. It was while he was there that he heard of Gerry’s death. Sadly, a few days after that he received a letter from Gerry asking him to be best man at his wedding – that really cut him up.

  The words in Cattie’s letter were exactly I had been looking for. Clearly, Andy and Gerry had been close and, whatever secrecy Gerry had applied elsewhere to his plans, he had made his intentions crystal clear to Andy. Elated with the news, I cast aside doubt. I felt I was walking on air.

  I’d also met up again with John and Sheila, as John had brought the Nuptse expedition map to show me. We compared his original route to the one I would be making with Jagged Globe.

  ‘Can you show me where to find the memorial cairn?’ I asked.

  John drew a small cross in black ink on a 5,000-metre contour above a small settlement called Bibre. ‘I’m not entirely sure, but you see this wide space between the contours . . . showing where the land flattens out . . . this is most likely where we built it. It was nearly forty years ago, but I think this is right.’

  I was so excited to think that I would be following in Gerry’s footsteps.

  By late April the weather had improved, and we were ready to head for the mountains again. Paul drove us to Glen Nevis and parked at Polldubh, the end of the road. A confidence-boosting signpost warning ‘Danger of Death’ indicated the start of the rugged, but popular, path for tourists. It was a shady walk under deciduous woodland, and a busy river rushed through the glen, carving rock into waterfalls and pools. Sunshine warmed our skin as soon as the trail opened out onto the green valley floor and its light glinted and danced as it caught spray from Steall Falls, its water cascading 120 metres down broken cliffs like the swishing tail of a white horse. I could imagine some kind of period drama being filmed here. It felt romantic and old-worldly as we made our way up the broad expanse of the U-shaped valley backed by the Mamores. Crossing a bridge, we investigated some ruins, a sad reminder of when the upper part of the glen was once inhabited; it was another of those places steeped in history and I imagined what life must have been like for the people who lived here. After checking the map we followed a faint but then clear path that ran along the left side of a tributary stream.

  ‘Yeah, if we stick to the river it’ll take us right up to the col between Carn Mor Dearg and Aonach Mor,’ Paul said.

  ‘Cool, let’s go,’ I answered, pleased that my boyfriend was enjoying leading for once.

  It was warm work climbing higher, but we enjoyed a little respite when we arrived into the glacially scooped-out corrie bowl. Mountain peaks were holding on to their snows, and meltwaters were making the ground underfoot wet and sloppy. Repeated footfall had teased the suggestion of a wandering line through the grasses, but traces of previous human passage soon disappeared completely. We followed the meandering river and traipsed over straw-coloured tufts and heathers on intervening slopes towards views of the broken terraced cliffs of Carn Mor Dearg. I came across a lost black cap.

  ‘Hey, Paul, look, someone has trodden the exact same way as us!’ I exclaimed, as I waggled it about. ‘Life is a bit like route-finding on a mountain, isn’t it? All of us just trying to beat the line of least resistance,’ I said. ‘When Mel and I were walking yesterday we met a guy who described these mountains as “dull” and “a slog” and “not the most interesting of the four thousanders”. I couldn’t disagree more. I know the terrain isn’t so challenging, but the views make up for that tenfold, don’t you think? They make me feel so ALIVE!’

  ‘Maybe the guy experienced these hills on a cloudy day,’ Paul suggested, as we trudged on up through a patch of crispy snow to the col between Carn Mor Dearg and the great wall formed by the western slopes of Aonach Mor. Steep, grassy crags confronted us and we stood in silent contemplation.

  ‘It didn’t look that bad from down there,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ Paul agreed, ‘and I’m not seeing a path of any sorts. I think we’re just going to have to go straight up.’ We scrambled up the vertiginous wall, clutching at dry, crackly mosses and grasses. Paul was enjoying himself.

  But it was as we were gaily tramping across the snow-covered col towards the second Munro, Aonach Beag, at 1,234 metres, when Paul suddenly said in a very girly octave:

  ‘Eh, Sarah . . . we’re walkin’ on air.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a golf-ball sized hole here that I can’t see the bottom of. Just rocks all the way down at the base of the mountain. I think we need to move over very carefully, we’re out on the edge!’

  The ground beneath my feet felt solid to me, but I immediately turned and walked through ninety degrees. Once on safer ground, we stopped on an ice-clad outcrop to look back down over the col.

  ‘You can see the sink line, look!’ Paul said.

  Sure enough, we had been walking on a cornice – literally just an extended lip of snow hanging over the edge of the mountain. Not really what you want to be doing unless dicing with certain death is your thing. If conditions had been milder and the snow just a bit more rotten, our combined weight could have broken through that snowy shelf and we’d have fallen to our doom. It was quite a thought.

  ‘That’ll be another of my nine lives blowing five sheets to the wind!’ I said.

  ‘I reckon the snow we were walking on was a bit deeper than the length of my body,’ Paul mused. I shuddered at the thought.

  A low hum of chopper blades broke our silence. The search-and-rescue helicopter was hovering around the vicinity of Ben Nevis, one more reminder of how dangerous the Scottish mountains can be.

  We marched back out along the path, which was now busy with tourists of all nationalities: there were girls sweating off layers of make-up and wearing pumps on their feet; a young buck in flip-flops; and a man carrying a new baby in a papoose. I thought about the slippery rocks and water slide they’d had to cross and was glad none of them had come a cropper. ‘Maybe they didn’t notice the warning sign,’ said Paul, as though reading my mind. And then, as we passed back under the deciduous trees, we were stopped by Mountain Rescue. An elderly Indian lady had slipped and knocked herself unconscious against the rocks; her worried and tearful husband sat on the damp ground cradling her head in his lap. It was a disturbing scene after the day’s events.

  My mind turned to Nepal. Only yesterday, 18 April, news had been broadcast of tragedy in the Himalayas. I had listened in horror to the story as it revealed the highest deat
h toll on one day in the history of mountaineering had taken place. A block of ice – reportedly equalling the weight of 657 buses – broke away from a hanging glacier on Everest’s west wall, causing an avalanche to barrel down across the full width of Khumbu Icefall. Sixteen Sherpa died, one of them belonging to the Jagged Globe team. I could hardly believe it. In addition to my tailored plan to locate Nuptse Base Camp, a trek to Everest Base Camp was part of the company’s planned itinerary, and I wondered whether we would still go there – or in fact if the trek would go ahead at all. But, after a call from Jagged Globe, I learnt that the trek I had booked was going ahead as planned.

  A month would be the longest I’d ever been away from my children and, though they would be well looked after, it didn’t stop me feeling guilty about leaving them.

  As we said our farewells, Leon put his arms around me.

  ‘Mummy. I’m going to miss you. I’m frightened you won’t come back.’

  ‘Aww, what makes you think that, you silly billy?’ I said, hugging him tight.

  ‘You told me Gerry died on the mountain and that’s where you’re going to take Granny’s ashes and I don’t want you to die too,’ he spilt out in one breath, tears rolling down perfectly smooth cheeks.

  ‘Listen. You don’t need to worry about me. I’m not going up the mountain, just to the bottom of it. I’ll be quite safe, I promise. How about I give you a copy of the trek itinerary? That way you will know where I’ll be each day.’

  Nodding his head, he seemed reassured.

  I had felt like a child waiting for Christmas, but finally Paul and I were at the start of our journey to Nepal. We’d left Leon with his grandparents, but Marcus would be staying with one of my neighbours – the same kindly woman who had helped me so much when I’d broken my ankle – and they were both standing on the shingle beach near the airport. As I peered through the aircraft’s window I could just make Marcus out, a tiny red dot against the grey, pebbly shoreline. He’d told me he was going to wave till the aeroplane disappeared into the cloud.