Ben Nevis - The Hard Way

The other night, my friend Mike was talking about his ice climbing expeditions. Although this holds no appeal for me, I’m always intrigued by the weirdoes who find it fun. Perhaps not surprisingly, he misinterpreted my interest and assumed I was fishing for an invitation. I hastened to put him right, but in the process casually mentioned that I had in the past, done a bit of climbing. Maybe I was hoping he would be impressed as yet another hidden depth to my character was revealed. Our eyes would meet across the table; we would nod a salute of mutual respect and our friendship would be forever cemented as brothers of the rope. Real men, hard men; men who’d been tested and knew what life was about.

Instead to my distress, he demanded details and before long had ferreted out the truth that my résumé as a climber was somewhat limited and, let’s be honest, rather wimpy. Even trying to tell of the time I solo climbed Ben Nevis, Scotland’s highest peak didn’t do much to resurrect my status.

Soaring to the dizzy height of 4,000 feet above sea level, Nevis doesn’t inspire awe among too many mountaineers. Sitting at my desk in Denver for example, I’m 1,250 feet higher than its summit, while in my Lay-Z-Boy at home, I’m 3,500 feet higher still. K2 it’s not, but despite racking up many miles hiking the hills of the English Lake District, it was at the time the highest peak I’d attempted.

"Don’t follow the trail." advised my sister as I spread out my camping gear on the floor of her Glasgow flat. "Drive round the back of the Ben and go straight up the side. It’s much faster and the view is better." Bowing to her experience in these matters, I camped at the base and after a quick drive into town for a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea, steered my little car back along the winding road to the start of the climb. The sun was out, life was good and when I saw two climbers thumbing a ride, it was only natural that I should pull over and offer a lift.

Laden with ropes, helmets, slings and pro it was obvious this pair were the real deal. The wild beards, broken teeth, hairy arses and body odor simply hammered home the point. They weren’t tackling the Ben but instead, some obscure granite tower the name of which meant nothing to me. Despite it being a mere 200 feet or so, they were anticipating taking the entire day just to summit and return. Not as experienced as I’d assumed, obviously.

With a note of smugness I explained that not only did I plan to summit the Ben (did I mention it’s Scotland’s highest mountain) but was doing it the hard way and still planned to be down in time for a couple of pints and a nap before dinner. Curiously, they were less than impressed.

"Where’s your gear?"
"I’m wearing it."
"Do you have a rope?"
"No"
"Do you have a helmet?"
"No"
"Are those the boots you’re planning to wear?"
"Uhm, yes."
(Uncomfortable pause)
"Maybe you’d better do something easier"
"Maybe you’d better walk the rest of the way!"

In the face of such unassailable logic, they changed the subject and before long I was waving them a cheery goodbye as they unloaded their gear at the base of a soaring monolith. On then to my own climb. My good mood lasted right up until I hopped out of the car and cricked back my neck to stare up an endless slope of bigger-than-me sized boulders. Not even the mountain goats were reckless enough to try and pick their way across this terrain but somewhere here was the route my sister had cheerfully told me to follow.

Ah well, I’d come this far so for almost three hours I scrambled, slid, scraped and heaved myself over first one boulder then another. On and on as the sun rose higher and the sweat dripped into my eyes. My fashionable jeans gripped and tugged at my legs and my T shirt stuck to me like a bad smell. But it wasn’t so much the physical effort, as the fear. The fear that any one of these rocks could topple, roll or shift and trap a random part of my body, pinning me to the mountain for the rest of my life. Every time I crawled over another boulder I could feel it wobble beneath me, just itching for the tiny bit more momentum it needed to begin a downward trajectory that would crush me in an instant. It was around this time the often-heard-but-routinely-ignored safety instructions for mountaineering came back to me. Never climb alone; always let someone know where you are; take proper equipment, blah de, blah, blah, blah.

Finally, aching and trembling, I hauled myself over the final rock and saw my goal. The Summit of Ben Nevis (I said it was Scotland’s highest peak, right?). I’d made it. Boulder field or not, I’d taken on this mythical mountain and won out. 4,000 feet of aching sweat and toil rewarded. I was at the top.

Me and about 500 other people. Old people, overweight people, people barely old enough to walk. The entire tourist population of the British Isles was milling around in a bovine manner, eating sandwiches, taking photos, admiring the view. All completely unaware of the Herculean task I’d just achieved. Looking down I could see hundreds more inching their way up the trail towards me.

I sat and put my head between my knees, sucking air for a while before concluding I wasn’t up to facing that boulder field again for the climb down. To hell with it, the mountain had won. I’d take the damn tourist trail. So I did. And such was the press of humanity; it took me almost four hours to get to the base. A good five miles from where I’d left my car. And nobody stopped to give me a ride back.

Since that day, I have done some real rock-climbing, you understand. I even have several dollars worth of gear out in the shed...somewhere. Uncomfortable shoes, a harness which hates me as much as I hate it, a helmet with bona fide scratches, and lots of karabiners. Some of those are currently doing service on the dog tie-outs and one as a key chain, but the point is; I do have them. And they’ve seen combat.

But even though I know all the lingo, have read many of the books and have summitted Ben Nevis the hard way; I still can’t pass myself off as a climber.