As he descended into the small hollow between
the summits of Tarmachan and Garbh, to where the
ground was interrupted by a series of small lochans
and where he could be out of the wind for a few
minutes, he made a plan. He would linger for a while
in the shelter of the hollow and have something to eat
and drink. This would give him time to get his breath
back and also give the wind a chance to subside.
It was always possible that it would fade away as
suddenly as it had arisen.
Bannerman checked his watch and saw that forty
minutes had passed. He decided that he should
not delay any longer. In January the days were uncomfortably short. He looked at the sky to the
north for signs of encouragement but found none. If
anything the sky was darkening over Glen Lyon and
there was a threatening purple tinge to it. Feeling
instead that he had to expect the worst, he got out
his waterproof over-trousers from the side pocket of
his rucksack and undid the zips so that he could put
them on over his boots. With legs and body well protected from the elements he pulled up his hood
and secured the draw strings. He put his mitts on
and started out on the short climb to the summit of
Meall Garbh.
The wind, although still strong, was relatively constant in velocity and not gusting, which would
have made it much more dangerous. This was a
factor which decided him to go on across the ridge.
He looked out from behind the cairn at the narrow
stretch ahead. Although it was only fifty metres long
at most there were steep drops on both sides and he
could see the small town of Killin far below at the
west end of the loch. The fact that the wind was
coming from the north, making a fall on that side
of the ridge unlikely, was reassuring. The north side
was steeper than the south; a fall from there would
almost certainly be fatal.
Bannerman turned away from the wind to make
a final adjustment to his rucksack straps and hood
fastenings before venturing out from the shelter of the cairn. He was surprised to see a figure coming
up behind him. The tall figure of a man clad in dark
waterproof clothing was about seventy metres below
him and approaching the summit on the same path
he had used himself. The fact that he was not alone
on the hill gave Bannerman’s confidence a boost. Although he liked solitude in the mountains, it was
sometimes nice to know that there were other people
around.
With a final tug at his straps to ensure tightness he came out from behind the cairn and moved out
on to the narrow ridge. He moved gingerly at first, in order to gauge the strength of the wind, and then he moved steadily along the ridge until he reached
the one obstacle in his way - a rocky little step
which he would have to negotiate before being able
to proceed. As he reached it, the heavens above him
opened up and icy rain was driven into the right
side of his face. He put his hands down on the rock
to steady himself, and wedged his right boot into
a small crevice to seek stability as he prepared to
swing his left leg over the obstruction.
The crevice was not as secure as he had imagined.
The rain had made it slippery, and as he put all his
weight on to his right foot his boot slipped out of
the crack and he fell heavily, his body straddling the
ridge and the sharp edge of the rock catching him in
the stomach. Fear and pain mounted a synchronous
assault on him as he frantically sought to secure hand
holds on the rock, which was streaming with water. He quelled the sudden rush of panic in his head and steeled himself to do nothing until he could get his
breath back and think more clearly.
He was quite safe, he reasoned. He had fallen across the ridge, not off it. He had simply been
winded hadn’t he? He inhaled slowly and cautiously
to see if there was any associated pain that might
indicate damaged ribs, but there was none; he was
all right. He turned his head to the left to avoid a sharp piece of rock that had been cutting into his
cheek and saw that the climber who had been coming
up behind him was now at the start of the narrow
section and was edging his way out towards him.
Bannerman signalled with his hand that he was all
right, in case the man thought he was in trouble,
but the man kept coming anyway.
Bannerman pulled himself up into a kneeling
position but kept his hands on the ground for
stability until he felt well enough to continue. The
other climber stopped a few metres from him and
Bannerman yelled against the wind that he was OK.
The other climber looked at him over his ski mask
but as Bannerman got up into a crouching position
he suddenly realized that the man was intent on
passing him. There was clearly not enough room
to allow this to happen.
‘
For Christ’s sake!’ yelled Bannerman, but the
other man just kept coming. Bannerman, still a
bit unsteady, braced himself and prepared as best
he could. There’s no room!’ he almost screamed,
but the other man kept coming along the ridge as if there was nothing in his way. He barged
into Bannerman, pushed him aside. Bannerman
felt himself lose balance.
There was an awful moment when Bannerman felt
himself topple over backwards in slow motion,
losing all contact with the mountain. His hands
reached up as if to grasp the clouds and a scream
started to leave his lips, but it was short-lived as his
head came down into contact with a rocky outcrop
and he was knocked unconscious.
When he eventually opened his eyes, he
was groggily surprised to find that he was still alive.
He knew he was alive because he was in pain. His head felt as though it had played host to a nuclear
explosion and his right arm was being pulled out of its socket. He was soaking wet and bitterly cold and
his face was being grazed against sharp rock. His legs
felt free, however. He looked down slowly and saw
in one nightmarish moment that there was nothing
below him! He was hanging over an abyss.
Bannerman closed his eyes, trying to shut out
the nightmare, but he knew it was real. He turned
his face slowly upwards to confirm what he now
suspected and saw that his ice axe, attached by
a loop round his wrist had caught in a crevice
between two small rocks and prevented him from
falling completely off the ridge. He was suspended over a fall of three thousand feet by a quirk of fate
and a thin strap round his right wrist.
Bannerman could not see how secure the axe was
but he had no choice; he had to move. He tried to
turn his right hand to grip the handle of the axe but there was no feeling in it. He would have to
try turning on his rocky fulcrum to attain some kind
of hold with his other hand. Summoning up every
precious ounce of energy he had left, he took a deep
breath and turned over. He heard the metal axe move against rock above him and he froze, but it held firm.
He was now able to grip it with his other hand. He pulled himself painfully up on to the outcrop and
knelt there to take the strain off his arms. A sudden
rush of fear made him vomit as he thought how close
he had come to death.
He was still not out of danger. His life-saving
outcrop was some thirty metres below the ridge
and to get off the mountain he had to get back up
on to it. He was faced with a climb he would not have
relished on a sunny afternoon, let alone in a state of
exhaustion in a rain storm. He rubbed at his right
arm until the circulation was restored and flexed his
fingers until he felt they could be trusted. He had
to fight off an inner surge of panic that made him
want to rush at the climb and get it over and done
with. That was not the way, he reasoned. If he was to make it he would have to consider every single
move and do everything slowly.
It took twenty minutes to get back up on to the
ridge, but he did so without further incident. He
made his way back to Meall Tarmachan and came
down off the mountain with pained slowness. He
felt ill but he knew that the light was fading fast.
There was no question of resting.
Fear was replaced by anger when he thought
about the man who had jostled him off the ridge.
He thought it beyond belief that anyone could have
been so stupid and thoughtless. Perhaps in time he
might become charitable enough to believe that the
man had been overcome by panic at being caught on
the ridge in such atrocious weather and had barged
through without considering the consequences. But
for the moment Bannerman was furious. The clown
should have realized that there hadn’t been enough room to get past.
When he reached the car, he tumbled his gear
into the back in an ungainly heap. He got into the
driving seat and closed the door, rejoicing that at
last he was safe from the great outdoors. Right
now the great indoors was all he ever wanted. He
started the engine and made his way slowly along
the shore road to the Ben Lawers Hotel. He hadn’t
had the energy to change out of his boots and had
to concentrate hard on the pedals. He made it to the
car-park at the hotel and almost fell out of the car with exhaustion.
‘What on earth?’ exclaimed the owner, when she
saw the state he was in.
‘I had a bit of an accident on the hill,’ said
Bannerman weakly.
The woman called her son Euan to help Bannerman
into the bar where there was a roaring fire. She
herself went to run him a hot bath. Euan handed Bannerman a glass of whisky and smiled at his
reaction to the burning sensation as the spirit trickled
down his throat. Bannerman handed him the glass
and nodded at the suggestion of another.
When he finally eased himself out of the bath
water to towel himself down - somewhat less than vigorously, Bannerman felt the back of his head
where it had struck the rock. There was a lump
but nothing serious, he reckoned. Amazingly that
seemed to be his only injury apart from a sore right
arm and a weal on his right wrist where he had been
suspended from the loop on the ice axe. He rubbed it
gently, knowing that a few hours ago it had been his
only link with the land of the living. He shuddered
and put on dry clothes.
‘
I really think we should call the doctor from
Killin,’ said Vera, the owner, but Bannerman insisted
that it was unnecessary, thanking her for her kind
ness. ‘All the treatment I need is in there,’ he smiled,
nodding at the bar.
‘Well, if you’re sure …’
‘I’m sure,’ said Bannerman.
Bannerman had another whisky, then ate the
biggest mixed grill he had ever seen. There were
only two other guests staying at the hotel, an English
couple from Carlisle who planned on climbing Ben
Lawers on the following day.
‘I hear you had a rough day,’ said the man.
‘I had a fall,’ said Bannerman, his mind rebelling
at how innocuous the words sounded. All that fear,
all that terror, all that living nightmare, dismissed as ‘a fall’.
‘Happens to the best of us,’ said the man.
Bannerman smiled weakly and nodded. He didn’t
want to continue the conversation. He left the
dining-room and returned to the bar to sit down
by the fire. Filled with warmth and well-being, he
felt himself quickly become sleepy. After one more
drink he thanked the owner and her son for their
kindness and went up to bed. As he pulled the
covers up round his ears he was aware that rain
was battering off the window. He remembered the
weather forecast for the day… fine settled weather.
‘Incompetent bastards,’ he murmured before drift
ing off into a deep sleep.