On the Edge of Nevermore

by Nick Bullock

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

*

Blinking the congealed early-morning matter from his yellow and piercing eyes he stares. His eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s.

Looking the length of his long black beak he watches with deadly fascination. The climbers remove rucksacks from the rear of the van, clouds of warm breath billow from their mouths. The dark and the freezing cold of this winter morning in Scotland penetrated his jet-black primary feathers and even the furry-black-down layer beneath. He shakes and puffs his feathers to circulate trapped warm air in an attempt to stave off the cold. The door of the van is slammed shut and as the light inside turns off, dark invades, surrounds and rules once again.

Darkness is there…. Nothing more?

The climbers walk, leaving behind stationary-metal, warmth and security, and carefully tiptoe between frozen puddles. Thick verglass shining in the full moon marks the path like a pair of railway tracks silver-shining in the evening sun of summer. They move with stealth past the hut not wanting to alert the occupants and further into the eerie-silver-half-dark.

The beguiling, ebony Raven opens his wings and allows the wind to lift his body until he passes over Lagangarbh. Gaining height the wind picks his body and buffets him until he circles high. High above Buachaille Etive Mor, high above River Coupall and high above Rannoch Mor, a white and barren wasteland stretching into the distance. The freezing cold wind whistles through flight feathers making a sound like the dragging of a dress across a rough un-varnished wooden floor. Far below pinpricks of light steadily pick their shining way toward their goal. Three times the raven craws, deep and gruff, an old man clearing his throat.

“Come on Michael, it’s a little steep but its ok.” Bullock yelled down toward the flickering pinprick of light beneath him still in the dark-sinister gully. Ice drooled from the surrounding rock-walls. Water drips, drips, drips from the tip of long, thin and growing icicles, with every drip, their length increasing. The cold is unable to penetrate the thick layer of ice covering the stream underfoot. The stinging cold water flows. It gurgles beneath the ice, over rock, through constriction, until joining the deep and flowing Coupall. The fault they follow leads directly to the objective Ravens Edge.

The deep fault they follow has been the grave of many. Once the bodies of seven waited for the thaw of spring to release them. Steep walls either side funnel freshly-laid snow and mixed with the snow falling into the gully from above act like concrete pouring wet and heavy along the semi-circle tube from a lorry, no chance of survival for anything in the way of its slippery-deadly path. Fortunately the snow this winter had been kind. A compact crust covered the steep-boulder-strewn heather slopes, a dusting on the crags and nèvè in the gully above. It wouldn’t be an avalanche that would end lives today.

Steep ice and snow-dusted walls reared high and menacing. The climbers pulling gear from rucksacks feel the threat as if gladiators in the arena. The wind whipped spindrift, crystals of razor-sharp snow stinging exposed skin. Nick leaned into the wind, a matchstick man. The steel-grey of first light started to give clues to the climb. Shadows moved, stretched, shortened as the day came into being. Corners are exposed, tufts of turf white-coated in frost, fragile, spring from the ledges. Only the deep cavernous fissure of Ravens Gully, directly in front, remained dark and foreboding with the light of day.

Ravens Gully was a deep chimney formed by Slime wall on the left and Cuniform buttress on the right. First climbed in the summer of 1937 it remained the hardest climb in Glen Coe for nearly ten years. The first winter ascent was in 1953. In Bullock’s minds-eye images of Bonnington and McIness on the first ascent in 53 were vivid. The two spent the night just meters from the top of the gully. They were strong images for Bullock, images of pain, suffering, determination, sacrifice, images that added to the ambience of the situation and gave the place history.

Knowing Michael would have sussed-out the pitches to suit his sensible aversion to pain and flying, Nick kitted up donning not-a-lot considering the length and reputation of the climb. No Hex’s, (Nick hated the jingling, cow-bell sound they made) Four camming devices (Nick didn’t reckon they worked in icy cracks, so why bother with more). Twelve quick-draws (“twelve for Heavens sake, what is this a sport climb!”), a few pegs and a double set of wires (missing the odd one or two for a full set).

“Loads of gear, enough for a big wall climb.” Nick yawped in his usual brash manner. While secretly he did wonder about the lack of equipment for this six pitch Scottish V11/7 climb. It still waited for a third winter ascent. Of the six pitches four were give a summer grade of VS 4c, and Nick knew the second ascentionist’s (who were hard men, men of many a daring-do, Scottish climbers!) Rated their outing as “pretty tuff”. Then adding “it was quite hard for the grade!” Making Nick wonder if this was an undertaking too much?

Starting the first 60-meters he left behind doubt. The pitch was a turf-romp. The only time he slowed was to bellow to Michael’s diminutive form huddled below.

“Are you sure this is the correct line? It isn’t very difficult.” “Maybe I should try to make it harder?”

“No, don’t do that, it says here take the line of least resistance for the first pitch, I’m sure it will get more difficult.”

“Hmm, ok, but it really isn’t very hard and I want hard!” Nick yelled.

Unaware, above the grim, ungainly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore circled. Flapping his wings fast to make an up draught that would cushion his landing The Raven perched high above. The wind ruffled his feathers. He looked down from on high, watched and sat and nothing more.

The climbers were now 60 meters high on the front of Cuneform Buttress, ensconced, climbing into the bowels of the dark and cold elevator shaft. White-grey-black-green-blue, colours of a winter ascent, lichen coated, ice encrusted, snow dusted. Moving left, nearly into Ravens gully, but not quite.

“Watch me Nick.” Michael shouted from around the corner giving Nick not the slightest chance of watching him.

Twenty minutes had passed since Michael had started the second pitch. The noise of hard passage began to echo and bounce. Curses mingled with scratching, scraping, swearing and clearing.

“Ach, this is the pits man, it’s the living end.” Scottish vernacular spat in a broad Cockney accent, his East end upbringing combined with later life in Scotland.

“I would really like some gear, maybe even a hold that faces a way I could use. “WATCH ME.”

The rope inched slowly, time ticked.

When Nick followed he was impressed with the lead. A left traverse following small sloping holds, not one big enough to hold, not one in-cut enough to hook. Michael leaning from a corner beneath a large roof chuckled at Nick having trouble with the pitch. At one point Michael had hammered a piton into turf.

“What’s the idea behind this then?” Nick laughingly exclaimed.

“Did you really think this was going to hold you?”

Laughing, happy to be at the safe end of the rope Michael replied,

“Psychological, man, psychological. We don’t have any Warthogs that was the next best thing. Truly psychological.”

“Aye, ok, whatever, you bloody nutter!” Then added as if by afterthought, “good lead though.”

The roof above Michael was big, very big.

“My, this roof is big.” Nick nervously stated the obvious and squeezed beneath the overhang and into the dark. A rotten, mangy old piece of hawser, threaded through the eye of a rusty peg and no doubt placed on the first summer ascent was clipped and extended to allow the rope free passage around the roof. The eye of the peg had to be chipped clean of crystal-clear water ice. Reversing from beneath the roof was difficult. Launching out right onto a steep-slab beneath the roof called for delicate and cautious climbing. Pleased to find a flat hold, an in-cut hold, a peg, a torque, a good wire placement, a foothold, frozen turf, a good wire, a good wire and a good wire, Nick celebrated.

Crunched into a constricted corner pulling around the side of the roof was energy sapping, but not as much as the following 20 meters. Slotting the picks one after the other into the crack running the length of the corner above the overhang Nick repeatedly lay-backed from torqued axes. Foot placements became difficult to find, high, tiny, crozzles on the right wall of the corner were used for the single front-point of his crampon. Steel bit. Sweat poured. Height was hard gained, fought-felt-teased, until a large snow-covered ledge was reached.

Michael seconded, slowly at the start. Easing the cold from joints stiff from inactivity. Slow. Easing blood into fingers. Slow. Easing blood into toes. Hot-aches sting-sickeningly-sting, until movement brings relief. Activity is relief. Cold air is sucked into the lungs and savoured.

“Full-on man, good lead, that was the best.” East-London dulcet-tones echoed, ricocheting from towering turrets. Nick stamped his thick-well-worn, creased and cracked boots hard into the snow-covered ledge. The crampons fastened to the base of his boots, scratched and worn and rubbed round from use, collected snow making his feet heavy. Michael pulled the last of the hundred-layback moves to stand alongside Nick.

“Where now?”

“Straight up that chimney, then traverse left beneath the overhang, around the corner and belay on a cramped stance that’s what it says here,” Nick said reading the guidebook. Then added,

“Better get moving, its 2.30 now, we only have two hours of light left and both these pitches are 4c. We’ve got to get off, and I remember reading somewhere that can be tricky.”

The Raven circled and dived. Folding his wings to give speed he swooped between the pillars of rock forming the sides of the cold hole and past the climbers.

Michael, deep in the confines of the chimney thrutched and thrashed, his body tiered from the effort he asked, pushing with legs, pulling with arms, supporting, balancing, bridging. He placed a pick deep and sure into a large clod of turf. Leaning back, back out from the dark, claustrophobic-confines an easier line outside of the chimney was searched for but with no luck. He spotted the Raven, swooping past, fast and sure, speeding into the depths with the wind rushing through his feathers.

“Hey Nick”, his voice muffled and carried away by the cloistering confines of the chimney, “did you see that Raven?”

“No, just get on with the climb will you!” Then nick asked with uneasiness, expecting the wrong answer,

“You did bring your head-torch didn’t you?”

“Of course.” The chirpy cockney reply floated down to Nicks relief, “do you think I would have forgotten something as important as that!”

As it happened, yes, Nick did expect Michael to have forgotten his head-torch. Michael wasn’t adept at remembering. Michael was adept at forgetting. Once Nick recalled walking into Lochnagar with Michael only to find he had no crampons, his head-torch on that trip had already been left on the side of a track, and clothing be it on his body or spare was an afterthought in Michaels world. Clothing was something to be worn and used only if he had remembered to pack it, or put it on his body in the fug of the early morning haze.

Nick had known Michael long though. He had been through thick and thin, had broken bones and travelled the length and breadth of the country with him. Michael had belayed Nick unwaveringly as an unconscious body was carried over the top of him with blood spraying, turning the grey rock of Dynas Cromlech red. Nick knew Michael had faults, he had grown to find them funny and a part of his charm (as long as it didn’t cause him any hardship), but now with the onset of dark Nick didn’t need any extra hardship, the climbing that remained was going to be hard in the fading light of a short Scottish winter day and he was relieved to hear Michael say he had his head-torch. This climb was going to be a close call. Nick wanted a successful outcome. Nick wanted success. Nick wanted the third ascent. Nick wanted to get off safe.

“Watch me Nick, this is really sketchy.” Michael had traversed a steep slab beneath a long and large roof. Ice smears dribbled from beneath the roof covering the slab. Delicate taps with the front-points of his cramponed feet were made to clear the silver dribbles from the small edges. Silver shards of ice tumbled, tinkled and twisted, bouncing and spiralling down the slab. Caught in the gusting wind the shards flew, gyrating and dancing high into the darkening sky. Chock-stones welded beneath the roof in the gap between roof and slab were hooked and hung from, used for protection by placing long slings around the back and clipping the ends together. Picks were placed together behind the rocks, into the crack, leant back from, moved sideways on. Michael disappeared around the corner…. ”SAFE”, came the cockney call.

Meeting Michael sprawled along a narrow ledge, Nick felt at ease with the time that remained before light gave way to dark. One more pitch left to climb, the end was in sight, happy the two of them would not be robbed of the ascent due to the short, pre-new-year lack of daylight.

“Around the corner a deep crackis climbed to the top. An exposed and sensational top-pitch”

The light of the day lost its battle against the dusk. Shadows lengthened. Grey turned black. Cold turned colder, Michael listened to the jangle from axe’s swinging into rock. The grunt of effort, a scratch of metal against rock, the slithering of the rope, like the slither of a snake. Senses heightened with the coming of dark. The flapping of wings breaks his trance and the shrill piercing call of The Raven perched sat…staring, but nothing more.

“WATCH ME”, Nick asks the impossible. Asks for a return of the favour from a time long ago. The spell is broken. The Raven sours away from the dark crag. The eerie black mood of menace is lifted for the time but Michael is spooked by the dark outline circling in the confines.

Nick is spent. The crack of the last pitch was an off-width, bringing all an off-width can bring. The final moves were rushed and pushed, teased and eventually tamed.

Eventually .

No gear for protection, no light for ease of passage.

Happy, settled, satisfied, Nick belays. Open space. Dark windblown-freedom sat beneath the final few meters of the climb. White wilderness spreads in front shining as night takes hold. The Cockney grunt of strain floats from the deep crack. Nick grins for a second and allows himself a moment of self-congratulation on leading the pitch. It is all he hates from an activity that has become his life, his love. His obsession. Michael’s head appears from the top of the deep gash, he is reborn into Nick’s world of space. They congratulate each other with a handshake and without further showing of emotion move on, over easy ground until both stand atop of the buttress.

Nick is keen to move, the need to find a way from their windswept position is paramount. Snow-blown, snow-blasted, snow-encrusted rocks give evidence to the hostility of the weather and their exposed position. Spiky-white snow thorns point and jut from the side of the rocks that are now silhouetted by the rising moon. Rocks run along the crest, random bumps like that of an arthritic finger run the length of the ridge they now stand.

Nick has been checking for a way from their exposed stance. An airy-white-walkway cuts into the side of a steep icy slope. A dusting of snow has settled on this, the only horizontal ground cutting into the side of the slope. The slope is covered, a thick layering of ice with sharp small rocks poking from the cold skin remind him of the early morning cloud inversions blanking all but the summits of the highest mountains. The airy walkway runs along the top of cliffs. It leads to the top of the Great Gully. It was a way off.

While Nick had been checking the descent, Michael had pulled and coiled one rope. He had not separated the ropes and because of this, the second rope tangled losing valuable time, time for the descent, time to safely see the way down. The wind whistled and whipped and wrestled lose clothing, invisible fingers grabbed the cuffs of their jackets. Hoods, pulled tight over fleece balaclavas filled and emptied, stinging exposed-skin with a whip of gore-tex. Rattling, cracking.

“ Why the hell did you pull that rope on its own?” Nick shouted only in part to be heard above the wind.

“I just did ok, leave it at that will you” Michael’s answer wasn’t enough for Nick though.

“ I really can’t believe you did that, for Christ sake, you’ve been climbing long enough to know not to do that. I just don’t believe you at times Michael.”

“ Look, I know I made a mistake just leave it will you.”

Nick couldn’t though and continued to badger Michael until something snapped in the normally placid Michael and he had a go back.

“ Get over it will you, I made a mistake, that’s all, just get over it.”

Pulling another knot from the tangled rope Nick knew he had pushed his friend too far, he knew he had said enough, he knew they shouldn’t be having this argument on the top of a windswept Scottish mountain in the cold of winter.

“ Ok Michael I know I’ve gone on but that’s me isn’t it, I’m a winging, miserable, moaning old bastard aren’t I? Come on let’s get down.

The silver-walkway was tiptoed delicately. Nick led, his crampons crunched as he stamped. A tightrope along the cliff top. Michael followed close behind, his mind in turmoil, he questioned, he queried. A terrible year had changed him. Short tempered, moody. He didn’t like what he had become. He would change for the better. He promised himself. Michael stepped. Not the hard deliberate stamp needed for penetrating the thick, slick skin of ice beneath his feet. His mind in turmoil, he stepped without conviction, without thinking, without force. The crampon points, rubbed round from climbing pitch after pitch of rock refused to penetrate. Refused to hold.

His foot slid. His body plunged forward. The rear foot twisted, spikes sheared from the ice, splinters of ice flew, caught in the wind. Michael plunged forward with both arms straight, as if diving into a swimming pool. A dark and deadly swimming pool waited, a swimming pool he would never climb from. Michael screamed now, he screamed knowing he was about to die.

Nick spun on hearing the shrill cry. Horrified, terrified, he watched Michael sliding, feet first, on his front, slipping sliding speeding away from him and into the gloom.

“MICHAEL” Nick screamed, certain he was witnessing the death of a close friend. In an instant their eyes locked, Michaels bulging, massive pleading eyes, eyes of the dead, longingly burnt into Nick’s eyes, they demanded help.

Michael’s body gathered speed. The cliff-tops were only feet away and still he plummeted and bounced. A vain attempt to grab an axe, a flailing and bouncing axe, spinning and twisting failed.

“MICHAEL” Nick yelled again as his friend disappeared into the dark, only the torch attached to his helmet was visible now, the beam danced and spun as if searching for enemy aircraft. Michael had seconds to live, seconds before flying over the edge, Nick could watch no more. Nick listened, but the silence was deep, deep into the darkness, peering long, he stood there wondering, fearing.

Before turning his head and seeing his friend alive for the last time, the dark bouncing body abruptly snagged and stopped. The beam of the torch was stationary. The light fixed to the helmet, fixed to Michael’s head was still for a second before abruptly pointed into the ice. Michael’s head dropped into the cold ground. His chest heaved and he gulped air. Air he was only second away from breathing for the final time. A piece of clothing had caught on a rock, stopped his fall and saved his life.

Taking control, Nick showed Michael hard love, this was not the time for sympathy. They still had to get down.

“ For Christ sake Michael what the Hell were you playing at?”

“ I don’t know, one minute I was following you, then I was falling, Jesus, I thought I was dead.”

“ Please don’t ever do that again…. What the hell would I have told your girlfriend?”

Seeing Michael was very shaken Nick decided to get them moving before they moved no more.

“Come on, lets go, stamp your feet, keep them flat and keep your axe in a position where it will help you if you fall.” Cautiously Michael moved forward. If Nick hadn’t been watching he would have crawled. He shook uncontrollably but not from the cold. He thought about those he would have left, those he had been angry with and whom he had fought. The Raven entered his thoughts also. Could he hear it now or was it just the wind and nothing more?

They stepped into the upper section of Great Gully. Nick badgered and harangued to keep Michael moving. Eventually their sacks that had been left at the base of the climb were reached, packed and strapped. They trudged on into the bitter cold evening, the steep rocky hill was navigated and the silver-ice track leading to Lagangarbh followed.

Blinking, yellow and piercing eyes he stares. Looking the length of his long black beak he watches with deadly fascination. The climbers throw wet and heavy ice-covered rucksacks onto the gravestone-cold ground. Clouds of warm breath billow from their mouths. The dark and the freezing cold of this winter evening penetrated his jet-black primary feathers and even the furry-black-down layer beneath. He shakes and puffs his feathers to circulate trapped warm air in an attempt to stave off the cold. The door of the van is opened, the light inside turns on. Yellow and soft, dark diminishes. Yellow light filters from the rear of the van, light rules once again. The climbers step inside relishing the warmth and security that it gives.

“Did you hear that bird Nick?”

Nick stopped and listened. He heard water freezing and the wind blowing that is it and nothing more.

Thick verglass shining in the full moon marks the path they have just returned by. It shines like a pair of railway tracks, silver, like in the evening sun of summer. Puffed and preened, the Raven hops lifting one leathery foot, cackling, gruff and satisfied, the entertainment for the day over. Tomorrow will bring another day just that and nothing more.

The End.