Peter Pan and A Lost Boy

The philosopher and author Jordan Peterson a contentious writer who I seldom agree with on some issues, aptly describes a "Peter Pan" effect when boys don't grow into men by their mid 20's and take personal responsibility for the direction of their lives. He's quite a contentious philosopher but there is much truth in what he says of boys to men. He hints that when men do come out of being a "lost boy" (some of us had to grow into manhood much, much quicker than that) its ok to rediscover the freewheeling attitude of youth, try different new things or throw yourself back into old things with gusto. Basically get some youth back into your old bones and soul. 

Cloughs Cleft E25b 

Climbing re-discovered for me was and is my late life Peter Pan effect, I think. I have been among the mountains and trying to be a climber since I was maybe 13 years old. Not always very successfully as an early rescue of myself and friends proved when at 16 years old Hamish and the team rescued us from the icy North Face of Aonach Dubh when I was left at the end of the frozen rope in an icy gully. Mountain Rescue involvement was long part of that growing as a person as at that time it was a small rescue team very strapped for cash. It was where all active local mountaineers migrated to or were co opted to help out. Rescues were a moral obligation and often there just were not enough team members, and it was the only way someone was going to be recovered. This only really changed in the mid 1980's. The only way it could happen was if the local or visiting mountaineers went out and made up a rescue team. Folk were called up by phone, grabbed out the bar or co opted when up staying with a friend on a climbing trip. Often these were among the best mountaineers of their generation and from Glencoe School of Winter Mountaineering. It was in effect also a climbing club. As a young lad  learning to become a mountaineer and having a love of the mountains could be overshadowed by tragedy and a normalisation of dealing with that. Putting somebody in a body bag at the foot of a route then climbing the same route at some future point and with a smile on your face because you had enjoyed it seemed ok. So I suppose like other lads in Highland Glens who took to climbing, the two things, MR and Climbing ran in parallel and were a little bit firewalled from each other. Although making the same mistake on "Big Top" as a climber who we knew was killed by not extending the runner on the bulge and step on the last pitch was thought provoking, as was the fact it had started raining hard while literally hauling the rope a bit at a time to the top. Character building. 

I always thought that was ok as it never stopped me exploring and climbing some of the hardest routes of that time. Over that forty five or so years, forest work, falls and accidents took its toll. Crippling back injuries, chainsaw cuts and broken bones, a debilitating chronic illness and also some mental health issues from trauma and tragedy, not all MR related all at one point came to a head and I turned my back to the mountains and hated them. When an old back injury came back to haunt me and I couldn't walk I sold all my climbing gear. That was it over with the mountains as places that take too much - or that was how it seemed. I was on my first rescue at 15 years old and on reflection the early years were a golden period where  tragedy was never allowed to interfere with the climbing by my mentors as they were climbers and mountaineers above all else, and that was just the price for fucking up or bad luck. 

A bit of sport fun at Glen Lednock

These musing are leading somewhere. Its maybe a bit of stream of consciousness stuff. After selling my kit and hating the mountains, five years later and after much rehab I could run again and raced my bike and then got back into ski touring.  Due to my son getting the bug again for climbing it got me back up to the local wall and training, and ending up having to buy some climbing gear. I was really well supported by lifelong friends especially Sean MacNeil who donated his old climbing rack to me. In just about everything I do I try and apply myself to be the best I can. Be it self taught spey casting for salmon, to sport climbing or skiing. If you work hard at it you improve. 

Currently I do some core work, yoga stretches and conditioning and follow a basic "climbstrong" plan, and despite the years I see progress. There is lot I can't do from old broken bones. I have broken lots of bits and in particular had a head injury and spinal trauma, but I am blessed with strong fingers and arms and I am maintaining and even seeing progress despite the years. Self improvement doesn't stop when you get a free bus pass. Climbing and the mountains re discovered give back that feeling of being part of a unique tribe of wanderers and seekers among or over the high tops, and meeting like minded folk.  But also, since Fiona's passing a new perspective and a grace allowing the mountain obsession to not rule as other good people come into your life and share gentler pastimes.

It's not always about grades although for me, that merely provides a measure of indoor success at the walls and being goal focused it provides a measurable result. While at a wall folk chat about what they have done, where they have been or life in general and its good social. The same is true out at the crags. It's great to enjoy the mountains again and to have forgiven them. They are in the end benign lumps of rock but they allow us space to be free. This quote sums it up better than I can:

“The secret of the mountain is that the mountains simply exist, as I do myself: the mountains exist simply, which I do not....I ring with life, and the mountains ring, and when I can hear it, there is a ringing that we share” Peter Matthiessen, The Snow Leopard

A Guides Tale

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

I summon up remembrance of things past,

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,

And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste …

Shakespeare Sonnet 30

Back in the day ..........

Guiding was as yet confined to few within the Glen and these few mostly in the employ of the old fox or his 2ic Ian Nicholson. Many were on an ad hoc basis recruited when business was brisk. Notables being the likes of Fyffe or Spence or maybe Dave Knowles when he was about.

At that time I was a mere youth as yet not tempered by attempting hard men’s climbs and harder drinking in the wee snug after hours.  One climb above all was revered by us fresh youths, both from behind and in front of the bar. This was partly out of convenience. Like the hindquarters of an elephant as eloquently described by Bill Murray, it started only 10 minutes from the bar door. “The Gully” could be accomplished either solo before twelve thirty Sunday opening, or roped between two thirty and six thirty, usually by a mixed company of barman/maid and customer. It is fair to say “the gully” was well known to us.

Walking down the village one Saturday a passing car stopped and wound down its window with the driver asking if I knew of a local guide for hire.  A couple of names were passed to him and the chosen route asked.  When the reply came that it was none other than “the gully” I felt compelled to offer my services – for a reasonable fee of course.

So it was that I was hired, but not before my clients revealed that they were a professional couple, betrothed, and in addition they belonged to a “socialist mountaineering club” (The Red Rope) and as such were happy to support the local proletariat but not at excessive cost. We settled on a less than princely sum, perhaps due to my obvious youth and assumed lack of experience.  I went home to collect my climbing gear.

My kit at that time was by modern standards very meagre, but at 17 years old, dances, Ceilidhs and girls took priority. So it was that I as a junior bergfuhrer assembled my rack at the foot of the gully.  200’ No 2 Viking nylon donated by Robin Turner after an abseil lesson of his cottage roof, a pair of new Lionel Terray boots from Hamish, as the originals had been stolen from Kingshouse after a rescue in Ravens Gully that winter when I took them off to go in the lounge bar (under the watchful eye of the proprietor Jim Lee), and the most modern harness of its age – the ubiquitous Whillans. This along with a set of nuts made by clog attached to wire hawser, a selection of pegs and several slings in bright pink tape concluded the ironmongery for the ascent.

It had not rained for a month but never the less it would not have occurred to me to wear rock boots, even though I had a pair of EB’s donated to me by Sandy Whillans a local policeman.  The gully is a boot climb.  That’s how Bill Murray did it and you always follow in the footsteps of the master, don’t you?

We started the gully at its root via a pitch shown to me only the Sunday before by one of the barmen. This pitch is walked passed by most but I thought that as I was getting paid for the job in hand then a refund might be requested should all available rock not be included in the ascent. It went very well, with the pair climbing very fast and alarmingly competently in parallel on the twin No 2 weight Nylon ropes. During conversation it became apparent that proper guides were hired on a regular basis by the couple – indeed the previous weekend a “proper” guide had been secured in the Llanberis pass for the same rate as I, and three of the classics of the pass, including the renowned “Wrinkle” had been successfully ascended.

By now the haze of morning had becoming a black menacing shroud of afternoon, and soon the occasional very large plop of rain fell.  By this time we had passed the lower greenery and were in the more austere surroundings of the crux slab above the “Great Cave”. The atmosphere was oppressive and clearly it was going to become very wet. We passed a road sign saying  “ice” complete with metal post, put there the previous year by some pranksters on a fresher’s weekend.  The slab was climbed and soon we were at the redoubtable “Jericho Wall” which at that time was pitch 7 or 8 of the roped pitches if you include the lowest pitch. I regaled them with stories of daring doo and an account of the early history of the gully, plus of course a few rescue stories to enhance the atmosphere. It clearly had the desired effect as they were keen to push on and seemed apprehensive to say the least. This was further heightened when the rain started and they realised we were in for a deluge.

The pressure was on, but could the aspirant bergfurher pull it out the bag without needing the services of the rescue team?  Absolutely - afterburners on it was all go with each subsequent pitch dispatched at full speed with a full blown thunderstorm breaking around us.  With drowning and falling as a combined incentive the pair climbed well despite being visibly terrified, so all credit to them as I was feeling a burden of responsibility beyond my years.  We topped out after a 5 hour ascent, 30 odd pitches, over 1,700 feet of climbing and in a reasonable time for  a roped party of three.  Some parties have taken upwards of 14 hours and in one case 2 full days. For us all that remained was the knee wrecker down to the pub and a beer by the fire.

Two hours later as a bedraggled crew we arrived at the pub. They reluctantly bought me a beer as I was underage but  complemented me on a fine though short day.  As the day was shorter than they had in the famous Llanberis pass, and the climbing deemed inferior they had discussed the fee and felt that it should be halved.  So it was that barely enough cash for an evening “session” was handed over to the naive bergfurher, who there and then decided that the peoples flag was brightest pink and not as red as he might think. Guiding might not be for him after all.

The Long Road Home. Quite a Tale!

Angus "Angie" Gunn my Father

My father as well as many local men from North Argyll and Oban fought with the Argylls and the Norfolks of the 51st Highland Division at the rear guard action of St Valery which sacrificed thousands of men, partly so that Dunkirk was a success. They fought on hard against Rommel's troops for many days after Dunkirk was over and done with before surrender 12th June. This sacrifice was not acknowledged until 50 years later. Possibly because it was contentious and an embarrassment to Churchill. The privations of "the long walk" both to the salt mines and logging camps in Silesia, then escaping the Russians back west at the wars end cost many Highlanders lives.

Audio Interview With the Three Escapee's  https://youtu.be/pEk-B5JQhBM

Information on the Sty Valery Surrender and its lead up  https://51hd.co.uk/history/valery_1940

The three men in this story showed remarkable initiative and this story is worthy of any Hollywood movie.  As a wee boy I remember "the blood" telling the tale at a Glencoe Village Hall Celeidh and also my Dad and "Ginger" talking about the war up at the Elliots Cottage where we would go at New Year. From what I gathered in conversation I don't think it was as easy as this understated interview leads you to suspect. And of course things occurred that are best not in print. It was war after all.

The Black Crow and Feeding the Rat

As we pass the summer solstice I get introspective and undoubtedly feel a change as I am sure we all do. West Highland life is essentially a bit bipolar and can make for a dark season of the soul unless we continue to seek light outside, or inwardly lift ourselves.

I can tell when it's changing for me as bad dreams occasionally come back with restless muggy nights.  A few are mountain related. The randomness of climbing near misses such as a piss poor belay ripping out with 16 stone hanging at the other end and someone holding us both on by the hood of my jacket. Working in the wood and  a one ton skyline carriage skiffs past my head as it falls from the sky, or my work mate killed next to me when 150ft of Sitka swings his way and not mine, these all seem random bad luck compared to actual choices in the mountains like the poor belay on offer as no choice, that still gives me the shivers as I visualize flying out over Aonach Dubh. 

Climbing mountains has soul and becomes your church and tribe and risk acceptance part of that compensates for adventures heavy price. We all have a Pandora's box and occasionally the lid lifts a bit and this reflective stuff gets out before we jump back on top of it again. The claustrophobia and fear of burial in winter is a recurring one for me when I have a chesty cough or cold that makes breathing hard at night. Hay fever the recent trigger. Youtube and other places where you see avalanche recoveries cannot convey the pressure on your chest and sheer terror of not being able to shift air. No one is unchanged after being buried. Hayfever is an unusual trigger I guess. 

Bracken ticks and midgies and soft evening light. Very Highland

Seasonal melancholia can be mistaken for mental illness. Which of course it can be. Having downers is pretty normal living here. Its all down to Latitude and dare I say by dropping the "L" how we approach it. We have to hunker down and see it through. 

We have just had an exceptional spell of dry sunny weather to top up morale and body batteries. Mood is high for a but. Surfing that positive wave with good friends and activities is the way through the troughs to come. Or as I am now considering, moving to where there is more sun. But the West when it delivers is so special and delivers big so it might be Appin not Spain! 

If not West maybe East or central like Aberfeldy or Callander. Who knows but the positivity of the sun and good company sure helps with moods. I would certainly miss my friend many of whom are new to the area but have been steadfast during a difficult year. 

Feeding the adventure rat gnawing away inside is also a good way to help. I started soloing about a bit recently and went a bit old school leaving the phone and not telling anyone to spice it up old school style. I have quickly realised that I don't have the mental resources for this anymore with too many people to live for and love and to miss if it all goes wrong. I'm no longer prepared to pay the heavier price for adventure and so I will stick to well protected trad and clipping. And hugging and beer.

Edinburgh midsummer from Gilmerton. Nice!

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Falling Back - Lurching Forward

"For what its worth: its never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There's no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change, or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing"  F.Scott Fitzgerald - The Great Gatsby

I guess as we age we reminisce more and look back, as there is more back than forward. I do a bit of that these days. I also do look forward quite a bit as there is I hope quite a bit of it left! I am goal oriented needing a progression or something to aim forward at. Preferably without a ball, but certainly needing engagement. My teachers at school certainly thought I had a short attention span. But I didn't I was just bored with rote learning.  Primary education was fairly strict in our wee Highland village school St Mary's Episcopal. At St Mary's you got the three "R's" or the belt, often times both.  In fairness I could be a wee shite but aren't all boys now and again when bored. We had some Gaelic and minor Scottish history at school in among the revisionist clap trap of glorious English history, 1066 and all that. Its not so much that Scottish history was ignored, it just seemed a footnote to the Great British empire and revisionist myths. Little did we realise at the time that our history and culture, Neolithic, Celtic, Dalriadan, Celtic Warrior Priests, Vikings, Jacobite's and Scottish enlightenment was both our local and National history that had far reaching influence, European and World. Darien to the Heights of Abraham, Hanseatic League to the Somme and extirpation of the menfolk of the Cabrach. 

Secondary School up the road at Kinlochleven was just a travail among some burnt out bullies for teachers and de motivated kids. For me it was class room days of longing to be out with a fishing rod on a hill loch or wandering the river. I had not read "Highland River" by Neil Gunn then, but later on reading it I found Kenn the protagonist and I shared many childhood wonderings and wanderings. The source for me was always high in the mountains of the Glen. Filling me with terror and longing at the same time.  Highland River is a quest. The salmon symbolising knowledge from the Druid/Celtic mythology of An Bradán Feasa. Fishing was and still is a wander with a rod. Less about what you catch (these days I put them back if I can) and more about what you feel see and think along the way - perhaps an enlightenment. I can partly be defined as an angler, and I hope now also a conservationist. 

The source for Kenn on high moorland, for me up high among austere Dalriadan rock and Andesite. When exotic "climbers" such as Ian and Nicki Clough bought an old house to do up in the village I got my first exposure to folk who went up into the mountains as climbers. As a clueless teen along with another local lad we started exploring these high places and had adventures. I became a hillwalker and wannabe climber. Several adventures and misadventures later I was in the mountain rescue team. I was still very much a wannabe climber and in no way competent enough, but folk were patient and I got strong. Then, and for several years after, the team were working hill men and climbers who went on rescues. It was fairly informal and just expected that you or a competent visiting climbing friend would help out if someone was in trouble. Later as I became a better mountaineer and rescues became frequent it became less informal, and to meet the improvements in pre hospital care mountain rescue also changed. I also discovered I was a wee bit cleverer than my teachers had indicated and entered adult education with a gusto never felt in my younger days when I bailed out of school at 14 and didn't go back.  No regrets. Carpenter, Lumberjack, Mountaineering and Ski Instructor, Paramedic, Husband and Father. Success in life isn't money, property or status. Its only quantifiable in love. The more pain love causes in its loss the more depth it has. Learning to embrace that is a spiritual journey. Only loss of love, grief and pain awakens us to how fragile we all are, how little material goods matter and that money is a token.

I write. Probably not very well. Some are tales of rescue and of its great characters and legends. I still rescue day shift as a ski rescuer working ski patrol with a group of great folk up at Glencoe Mountain. Every time that damn helicopter fly's over I wonder what's happening with the MRT and think of the new young stalwarts of the team, remembering getting my head around the trauma and relating it to my own ambitions on some of the same climbing routes of the fallen. MR can stealthily grip and steal away the mountaineer, substituting a trauma junky. Pedalling the hit of helicopters, kudos and the excitement of the unknown. As potent as heroin to the adrenaline junky of which I was and maybe still am one.

I do feel very much a climber again even if it's clipping bolts or several grades down my old trad abilities.  I love wandering with a rod or exploring an old coffin route on a mountain bike. We are the sum of all past things, but it does not mean a future only looking back along some cursus of where we have come. Does it?

Be it a journey of the mind or a piece of rock there is plenty out ahead if you reach for it. That reaching  is a hard journey but I have light ahead up that magic mountain.

It is said that before entering the sea

a river trembles with fear.

She looks back at the path she has travelled,

from the peaks of the mountains,

the long winding road crossing forests and villages.

And in front of her,

she sees an ocean so vast,

that to enter

there seems nothing more than to disappear forever.

But there is no other way.

The river cannot go back.

Nobody can go back.

To go back is impossible in existence.

The river needs to take the risk

of entering the ocean

because only then will fear disappear,

because that’s where the river will know

it’s not about disappearing into the ocean,

but of becoming the ocean.

Kahil Gibran