28th December. The Couloir.

"It just makes a mockery of the whole route." comments the next guy in the queue on the ledge for the first pitch as some cheeky chappie comes waltzing down the frozen snow unroped, facing out, as the spindrift races across the sky above.

"How do you arrest the fall of the other person if we move up it together?" I pose the question to K, who in effect knows more than me about faffing about with tangled up rope and belays.

"I don't fancy dying" says K, "We'll just pitch the whole thing."

Eventually we get going.  Of course technically it's a doddle but a 150 metre plus cartwheel wouldn't look good on 'Reporting Scotland'.

25th December. Chick Bothy -Latest.

"I much prefer Clint Eastwood to George Clooney.  I don't like cute, like Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise." said Isabelle over a starter of Scallops with beetroot risotto and a pesto sauce.

"Yes but they're men, it's different when its a woman."

"If I was a man I wouldn't fancy her."

"Pah."

"Her nose is too small and her mouth. She's cute and she knows it."

Later...

"Her name's  ______ and I think she's English."

"Boyfriend???  Did you tell her you've got a wonderful friend she should meet!!?"

"Isabelle says she's too cute and her mouth's too small..."

There followed some unwholesome oral reference from the hormonally charged Otter.

 

24th December. It's Gonna Be Great!

My Xmas from the NHS  came: a camera up my Jap's Eye on the 5th of Jan, unless they find something more obvious when I get injected with penetrant dye on the 30th of Dec and a CT Scan.

They certainly didn't hang about, it's not like waiting for a hip operation, I've got a serious medical problem you know.

Am I bothered?

10th December. Happy Sad Auld Gitmas.

"We could eat out for Christmas" I said, "What about The Trough ?"

"I'm not eating at The Trough" replied Isabelle. 

(Clearly not up-market enough.) Pah!

"What about The Bothy?" was her suggestion.

Of course! 

And there would be the added interest of trying not to stare too much, whilst chewing on turkey, in the direction of the bar.

Unless the 'chick that works in the Bothy' will have been spirited off back to Bratislava or wherever for the duration.

"I wonder if they'd let her take time out from washing glasses to spoon christmas pudding into my mouth?"

Or sherry trifle...

8th December. Another Classic Case.

"I think that looks like Loch Ericht down there." I say peering through the general whiteness of sky and land,  "We must have come down the wrong side of the hill."

Of course in whiteout conditions it pays a handsome dividend to stick closely to whatever compass bearing from the summit points the right way.

Fooling around on snow slopes with a complacent attitude, putting the compass away along with the ice axe, blethering on and also not being able to find the map pertaining to the second half of the route in the first place can exact a hefty penalty, up to and including one's life.

"It's all about sensitivity to initial conditions, like a rocket on a launch pad, a tiny bit off course and it ends up at Saturn when it was supposed to be going to Jupiter."

"We can cut across that way and back over but what time is it anyway?" I say, sensing a decrease in light levels.

"If it's 3pm I won't be happy." says the Otter... "3.15"

I begin to wonder if the way we are now going, struggling up what feels like the hill we've just slid down from, through fairly deep snow, can possibly be the right way. That is,  apart from a short cut to an early grave, because it's now going to be dark in about 20 mins.

"Maybe we should just head down anywhere, we don't want to be stuck in the dark up this high."

A BIT LATER...

"Look! lights! Civilization!" trumpets The Otter.

"OH NO! that's Ben Alder lodge but it's on the other side of Loch Ericht, I'm pretty sure there's no path on this side and it's about eight miles back to Dalwhinnie."

It's quite a long Loch as lochs go, and known for it's remoteness, in fact it's hard to conceive of a worse locale to find one's self lodged beside on a December night. 

It felt a good deal longer contouring along the steep hillside above the water through heather, snow, wet rocks and birch woods in the dark for 5 or 6 hours. The only relief was falling into endless burns running down to the Loch, constantly slipping and an occasional snack of Chopped Nuts "For cooking purposes." 

For a while I thought I was going to go mad, or at least lose the balance of my mind. 

If only there would be a track soon? I began to feel like we were starring in one of those made for TV re-enactments of something that went horribly wrong: "With only a tub of chopped nuts etc..."

There never was a track but luckily there was half a moon, somewhere behind the cloud, which gave just enough light to see the loch stretching for miles ahead...

13 HOURS AFTER LEAVING THE CAR...

"Is the car still there?"

"I think so."