Ill Met by Moonlight

“Strewth, it’s locked!” cried our Leader, hacking tentatively with his ice-axe at a rusty padlock on the door of a derelict-looking bothy next to a wee loch, amid the snowy darkness. 

For Hogmanay had come, and we were to see it in, as was our wont, in a bothy; that year the lucky candidate for our lodgement gave access to the Fannichs, a range of hills rather unspectacular but rich in as-yet-unsewn-up Munros which had been festering on our Leader’s To Do list for some time. And so, ignoring the AA’s warning that the road was impassable, we had arrived, very late (for the road, while passable, had required a bit of digging and shoving), at this bothy and found it padlocked. An undreamt-of hiccup.

“Aye, but look in the garage,” said Alec, who had been wandering about testing windows; and we looked. And we saw that there was a hole in the roof of the garage and that climbing up into that hole gave access to the upper floor, yes, floor was all there was, but floor was all we needed.

Thus it was not long before sleeping-bags were unfurled, ice gathered from the frozen stream, primuses singing their merry song, mugs of whisky passing around. When I produced a bottle called Lucozade, there were raised eyebrows, and a muttering, which changed sharply as the Lucozade hit the tonsils, for it was 140-proof stuff from a source which shall remain nameless. The rest of that night remains a bit of a blur.

curling on the loch

The next day a grogginess lay upon us, and we slept long into the brief hours of daylight. Even our Leader was too lucozaded to think of his Programme of Tops To Be Knocked Off, and simply enjoyed a game of curling with flat stones on the frozen loch. However in the evening the Programme emerged, and it seemed that Mullach Coire Mhic Fhearchair was in the Leader’s sights, and that this was OK with everyone.

Everyone except me, for the Mullach, though a fine and worthy hill, was far, far away in the fastnesses that lie between Slioch and An Teallach, a long walk on the shortest (nearly) day of the year; and I had as yet sewn up never a Fannich, and was there not a heap of them lying handy, just around our door? I would leave the Mullach for a summer day. I did not openly add the most cogent reason for avoiding the long walk: I was still hurting after the motor-bike crash, and tired a lot faster than before.

the sun was setting

So away went the boys, early in the morning, and I slept late and then puttered about, enjoying the peace, until around 4 p.m., far too late, I started up the nearest Fannich. The snow was a firm crust, easy and delightful to walk on, and quite quickly Fannich One was in the bag and the sun was setting. Onward to Fannich Two. (Sorry about the names – I’ve lost the map.) The full moon rose, and it was bright as day, no reason to stop, so on to Fannich Three.

Where there was a tent, partially collapsed, with a little drift of snow up one side of it. Who could be staying up here at this time of year? And why had the occupant(s) not righted it and why were there no footprints? A greeting produced no answer, and fearing that there might be something wrong, I undid the door and went inside. There was the usual disarray that tents generate ; two rucksacks, sleeping-bags, socks, bits of clothing strewn about. Thank goodness, no stiffened bodies. The socks had name-tabs sewn on them, which seemed the sort of thing that schoolboy socks would have.

human and hare tracks converge

There being nothing to be done, I backed out, fastened the tent, and went back down in the bright moonlight that was no longer enjoyable but now had something of an unearthly sinister feel.

In due course the boys came back, Mullach Thingie was in the bag, everyone was happy; next day we went back home.

Enquiries turned up no explanation: no-one had gone missing. Perhaps the owners of the tent had got lost, reached the road, never gone back to recover their belongings. Couldn’t remember where it was? Rich enough for it to be too much trouble?

The next summer I went back; the tent was still there. Later I heard that the Mountain Rescue had come by and retrieved it.

*   *   *

A different year, and Christmas had come, and I felt a need to avoid it. So perhaps a nice walk would be from Ballachulish through to Loch Creran by the hill track; from there it wasn’t far to Benderloch, where I had friends who would be feeling festive, so I added to the rucksack as much 140-proof Lucozade as I could carry.

The hitching to Ballachulish was slow, and it was after dark that I arrived; but the moon was full, there was deep snow cover everywhere, with a nice hard crust on it, so the walking was easy – just like in the Fannichs. The track, of course, was invisible under the snow, but the way to go was obvious; I kept on until I was well away from Ballachulish and any Christmas revelry that might be going on, and set up the tent. All around was smooth unmarked whiteness, the gentle hills on either side, the route of the track between them clear, Christmas-card prettiness, no worries.

Into the tent, into the posh new down-filled sleeping-bag, ulster fry and coffee, and soon I was asleep.

Crunch – pause – crunch.

Awake in an instant. Footsteps out there, big heavy footsteps, by the sound of it, crunching through the snow, round and round the tent. Crunch – pause – crunch.

The sharp, bitter emergency adrenalin taste is quite exciting – you can get addicted to it. Dread is quite different, it tastes of ashes; dread is not nice at all, and once you’ve felt it, you don’t want to feel it ever again; there are probably not a lot of dread-junkies around.

This was dread, and what I wanted was to burrow down into the sleeping-bag and pretend not to exist. But that wasn’t going to help; the only thing to do was get out there and look. So out of the bag I got, and looked out the door. There was nothing. Only the bright moonlight on the snow crust, my footprints leading up to the tent and a confusion of prints round about, where I’d put in the pegs. Absolutely no mark that could have been the heavy crunch. Putting on boots, going out of the tent, looking round, I stood absolutely still for a while, watching and listening. Nothing. Only the moonlight on the snow. Not pretty any longer.

Stay or get out? Idleness won, and back in the tent, back in the warm bag, I lay and listened. Crunch – pause – crunch, and someone (something?) whispered my name.

Aarggh.

Looked out. Nothing but unmarked snow glinting in the eerie moonlight.

Logic said “the crunch was nothing, therefore the whisper was just imagination”. Idleness was eager to believe logic, so I burrowed as far into the friendly down as possible, gripped it tight, and reached for soothing thoughts.

The thought that sprang to mind was of the damp cold bothy in Torridon another midwinter night of snow and full moon, when the wind droned eerily under the door and, being alone, I was a tad spooked; later my friend who had grown up not far away told me that the bothy was well known to be haunted: it used to be the home of a man called King who would spend the evening in the pub up the road at Kinlochewe, and when he came back home he would throw the door open and bellow “Corners!” and the ghosts would all go and stand in their corners all night. Even though there were no corners for Mr Crunch to go and stand in, the story of King of the Ghosts was cheering, and presently I fell asleep.

Benderloch

Out of there sharpish next day, the walk through the hills to Loch Creran was fine, a lift took me to Benderloch and I told my friends the story.

“What could it have been?” I wondered.

“Ach well,” they said, “it will have been the ghost of the Red Fox that was murdered there, you would have passed the cairn on the way through the hills; or it might have been James Stewart that was hanged for his murder.”

Of course, by then the Lucozade had been the rounds, they were probably kidding.